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From the Eastern Citadel
There is a man on his last legs
and with worn out breath,
sitting at the corner embraced by himself.
He listens to the wisdom of today
and prays for children yet to come.
He glories in looking at the clouds
In a pictorial regurgitation of things that were.
In his bowels are blessings unexplored
From his lips come words heard but unnoticed.
The man fights with ailments
But lives on.
He acts and walks like a peaceful deity
but is human after all.
The children from his loins come occasionally
To hear from their father that emits wisdom with ease like pruning of vegetables.
His voice does not diminish
In a world with sealed ears.
Will we ever listen
Now he can still be heard?
