Old Age is the stage when one hankers not after luxurious goods
But only harbours the hope of hearing a few sweet words
Alas, the fulfillment of this wish often remains elusive
For the youth of the day have their own life to live
For us the ancients, they have little or no time to spare
So conversation with them becomes ever so rare
We the dull oldies are woefully ignorant of the current in thing
Hence, in the eyes of the smarties, we are simply nothing.
Our eager queries seldom fetch in reply not more than a monosyllable
We unnecessarily talk to them they think, because we have no work, we are idle
Our words of advice, (if we dare give it!) fall on deaf ears
They are sure they are mature beyond their years
Every poser is answered after a long pause, maybe to curb our urge to talk more
Fearing our insipid chatter, might death them bore?
Our normal talk is to them a source of irritation
For which we fail to see any rhyme or reason
The best way therefore is to keep mum
Taking in our stride their every fancy and whim.
This indifferent attitude towards us is sometimes hard to endure
But they still love us about which we are very sure.
*A poem I wrote for ‘Harmony’ Magazine for the June 2008 issue