Age is just a number they said,
This was something, in a book I read.
A child said, “We are going to visit an old age home”
How do I tell him, it is a tragic dome.
The soul that once fed you with hand,
Their hug that once acted as a magic wand.
Now they are spending life in distress,
Left all alone no one to address.
I went with the child to the old age home,
To see if I could live in that tragic dome.
I saw a woman walking all alone,
Whenever she walked I heard a groan.
No wonder, once or twice she fell down,
Struggled to get up without even a frown.
I felt disgusted at my own existence,
Her son might have fallen while learning to walk,
She must have held his hand while he walked.
(image courtesy http://www.gwengoindia.com)
This is what she gets for all the care,
All alone at the gate she stares.
I know what she is searching for.
Hoping he will come to take her back, she endlessly stares at the door.
A trembling voice whispers in my ear,
“My kids don’t need me anymore” is what I hear.
A weak, old figure was standing next to me,
I held her hand, so much pain in her eyes I could see.
A man gives me a letter to post,
How good his daughter is all he boasts.
Alone somewhere I open the letter,
He was asking his daughter for a sweater.
I looked at him one more time,
I felt I had committed a crime.
They might not see the things that fine.
But their eyes are still full of hope and shine,
A hope that has been already shattered,
A fear in me has now entered.
I came back home and packed a bag,
Into my closet I hid the bag.
It is for me to carry with me.
When my children will tell me they don’t need me.
When they will think I am no use to them,
When I will not be as strong as now I am.
And dear friend, to you I suggest the same,
when none for us will come to claim.