Pradeeta Mishra

The Old Life

The hands of the clock are moving fast,
He has been waiting for the time to stop,
His hands hold an ancient pen, with dried up ink,
The crumpled pages of the diary have turned yellow,
His eyes are stone behind the folds of his face, delicate and soft,
He is a writer, a singer, he is a father, he is a lover, and he is an old man,
Sitting in the corner of a white room, next to an open window, a window as old as he is, with a broken pane and eaten up wood,
He reminisces over his child

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