By Vivaan Bhalla
Pass me the morning paper,
He said at night.
This is my first lager,
He said after five.
He’s always thinking,
Evening to light,
His knowledge spreading
Left to right.
He remembers the war,
Not today’s sunrise.
He speaks with candour,
Without the hint of guise.
His thoughts are clear,
Repetitive but bright.
His pain is severe
It hurts to see his plight.
His humour’s sharp like a knife,
Witty and dry.
He's lived a good life,
But his memory has said goodbye.