O, see how, many years can make a man,
A very strong man now a weakling
A handsome lad, now a clownish looking fellow.
His coiled black hair now grey like the sky
His priorities changed, his ways too complex.
Now see his many dreams few, some faded
That energetic lad turns, and becomes like a baby
His shinny skin wrinkled and ugly to sight
Quiet places his seeks, not his usual, happening zones.
Struggles little, his wisdom doubles.
O, see how lonely he becomes, with few
Friends and family around him this days
No mother no father with him again
Life to him becomes meaningless and hopeless
So he only hopes to make heaven someday.
Someday I too will be old, old
And weak to do my usual tilling
This youthful strength shall fly away and leave
Me a helpless being, leaning on my wards
I shall be old, that I cannot carry my bones
Cannot eat sugarcane nor bones, cannot walk
Upright, arthritis may hold my knees and bend
And waist pain may wage war against my lumber vertebra
And when young men see me
They may laugh or smile, or just walk away
Forgetting I was young and more handsome
Than they can ever be or imagine
I shall be old; many of those of same age with me
May be dead. And I shall sit where I shall sit
Under the shade of tree covering the
Smiling summer sun, waiting for the call of, death
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem