Tossed up every morning, he is;
By the first chime of the bell around the temple,
Picking up his ragged wear;
Titivates his fragile cage of bones,
To set him along the never ending rows,
The only source that nourishes him up.
The face cordoned with wrinkles,
Elucidates his long lost chronicles.
With dim hope and slim aspirations,
Often, he googles on his own pace;
For him, life is but a mess.
Neither family, nor relatives,
Subsists the grudges on his own.
Possession he has none;
A frantic bowl with identical frowns.
A desperado of commune and crowns.
The shivering nights;
And crucified empty stomach.
His desire strangled,
Succumbs before the abode of heaven,
Where God dances and humanity slays;
Never, he stands to pray.
The mislaid smile,
Toppled with frustrated grin;
Still alive he is,
But dead within.
Disclaimer: As I walked around one of the temples to accompany my friend today; I came across this old man. And it led to these verses.