When I grow old,
I’ll no more wear my blues
For all my impending doom
Would be woven in garland of
Purple hues.
When I grow old
I’ll no more be preaching
Of how often the caged bird sings
For I would have broken all my bars
Regrown all my wings
Learn the skills of mighty landing and soaring flight
When I grow old
The weary bones
Shan’t be my gate keeping of the life
For I would have lived
Among the monks, among the hippies, the girl on swing or the cradled babies.
I would have made my own corsage,
Sprayed in ink
The timelines of the lives within.
For I would have lived
Unbothered by the wrinkles my mirth brought
Or the testimony of my being
I would have renounced
For I would have lived
When my feet taps against the beatings of my own laugh
Or When my wrists ache, with glorious stories held at my postage
For I would have lived.
Just like today
Where the memories I make,
In the dancing light of day,
Never shine so bright.
~Neda Nazir~
Neda Nazir, hails from Patna. She writes as a means of escape, has a way around words.
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