Evening Poem by Ajit Das

Why all these striving, hankering, when you can see
the clear sign of future shape of things unfolding
in their allotted places destined by your waning days?
The journey is now downhill from all that was youthful,
sagacious, vitally sharp into the valley of sunset.
Fading eyesight, shuffling steps, clouding of memory
draw the tapestries of the house you’re finally in.
Yet they decorate the room in the dimming sun light,
keeping the frontal view aglow till the eve fulfils itself.