He Is Old... Poem by Manu Kranth Chary

He get's up like a ceaser slowly,
Looking through his fragile glasses,
Half broken and at the master's support they are.
Dim and dusty they became with ages.
Ready for the daily walk he goes in the grasses,
With his friends all around - the breezes,
With his companions all around - the trees and plants,
With his guardians the sun and stars.
Bringing back the very smooth,
Glorious reminiscence of the past to soothe.
Trodding down with a cane in his hand.
Even the very smooth dust rise would irk him.
Small children being his best friends,
He always tries to ape 'em.
People had no bother in him,
But he cared the them to the most.
The weak heart had hardened by years,
Never a time he shed his tears.
Strikken by different ailments of his age,
Sought refugee now and then by a hospital.
He saw, He felt decades of time.
He visited the life in many a way,
Passing all the Seven stages of life,
He reached all the way to this day.
But he wat looked at, relentlessly as a bother,
For he was an unproductive OLD FATHER.