Granted, in the mornings the stretching of limbs is a little heavy now,
And a whiff of melancholy, a permanent noise,
-A vortex of self-pity for the unwary, –
The competitive enthusiasm – a priority cancelled.
The feverishness for territoriality – stilled.
The rapacity for possessing; –
Attempts for clutching the rocks forever –
Thoughtless activity nullified.
The things that matter have now dwindled.
But uncluttered list;
A discovery cherished.
Grace and generosity are revisited,
And affection has become a priority amplified.
The inner country;
A shimmering sea in a September morning.
I now feel free to count one by one,
The petals of flowers, –
A wondrous Fibonatchi number! –
And in the evenings, while thinking of quasars –
Chunks of us yet-to-become,
Seconds away from the singularity, –
To marvel!
I only wish to have felt eighty all my life!