The Departed Slaves Poem by Puskar Sikdar

In the restless dawn of life's embrace,
I gathered fallen mangoes filled with grace.
One by one, they slipped through fate's cruel sieve,
Lost in an alley where shadows weave.

The happiness I once toiled to earn,
Now beckons from a past that won't return.
Dust and cobwebs shroud my weary soul,
As age grips me, taking its toll.

I nurtured a generation with loving hands,
Yet now they turn away—who understands?
Once a king, now a slave, who foresaw this fate?
I raised them with care, yet old age seals my state.

Drifting away in a frail, broken boat,
Sailing to a land where love may still float.
Beneath the rhythm of raindrops' gentle song,
I'll hum forgotten tunes that once made me strong.

For years, I wandered through winding lanes,
My wrinkled skin bearing helpless strains.
Was my touch ever valued, did anyone say?
No, they made me a slave, cast my old age away.

Loneliness holds a cane in hand,
Leading me softly to time's final strand.
The sweat of my past dries in the breeze,
Yet light and air whisper moments of peace.

With trembling hands, I embrace my fate,
Drifting in silence, no anger, no hate.
Wealth means nothing to a soul so bare,
Old age—my dearest chapter—wrapped in death's quiet stare.