Growing Poem by Ananta Madhavan

The world is coeval with me.
When I was young it was young;
There was a needless lilt
In the tilt of a butterfly.
There was a random rain of events,
Which did not have to make sense.

When I was middle-aged the world middled;
It kept up with my sogginess.
Seconds before the world opened its mouth
I knew what it was about to say.
The dew had dried, the new smell's gone away.

Now I am old, the world has also turned old.
Between the pulling of the lever and
The locking of the points, a creaky delay.
I don't expect much, but even the faculties
Turn untrustworthy ministers. I am content to grope
For every excuse to hope, but there is hope.