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He Grew Old
He grew
old
In a
stolen teardrop of time
He grew
old
And the
Camphor tree in front
Of his
house
Grew
old.
And the
butterflies
Which
coloured his dreams
And the
beating of his heart
Which
accompanied his sadness
And the
letters
Which
lit up the galaxies for him
Grew
old.
The
silence of defeats
The
groans of ruins
All his
cuts and victories
The
fractures his hands had repaired
Grew
old.
The
secrets the mawwals wove in songs
The
memories
The eyes
which had been full of stars
And the
unblemished hand whose palm
Had
watered the stones of drought
They all
grew old.
His
words surrendered to the creatures
And to
dust
His
splendid thought got rotten
His
lungs could no longer draw breath
To paint
playgrounds for the orphans
His ears
no longer hear
The
whisper of the creeks
Or the
dancing of the lonely grass
On the
hilltops.
The roof
of his days cracked open
His
walls gave in to floods
His
lightning shrouded him
And then
Grew
old.
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