By Gopinath Maharana
A strange creature, human he seemed,
Bent a bit on his knees, neck and back
Walked down the road
On the other side -white on the head, white on the brows,
White on the moustache and beard,
Eyes dark still,
That is how he can be browsed.
Right away, then ,a friskful boy- three years old -
Ran across the street
Flinging his father's hand, and
Taking clutch of the creature's fingers in his,
Asking forth, "whoever you may be sir",
"You, nevertheless, resemble a man! "
Taking with care the little's palm in to his,
Dragging safe to the side on the road
Told he, "yes- I am an old man ",
"But, then, why are you all in white while I am in black?"
Well, my kid, I have donned time on me,
And, all my hair it has told
Leaving my eyes yet, that
You could still recognize the clan of yours's in me.
Then, in, stepped in the dad, and said,
"Sorry sir, this naughty one too much bothers;
"No, rather, he is better, that you ones don't look to the ones you are parented by
As he does, as has now, why else so many of mess
At times be placed , and often, on the road;
Of course, the road has an end ,
And, too, with agonies, having no end.
I wish, you better understand!