Her Last Stage

With Her Slow Steps,
She Trots On The Track
Stick In Her Hand
She Bents With That.

Hair Is As White As Milk,
Body Has Turned As Weak As Dead Soul,
Having A Slow Stroll,
To Regain Some Power
To Relive Her Life As Before.

Sitting On The Bench,
She Recollects Her Old Memories
Which She Handled With Great Care
For This Age,
How She Built Her Home,
When She Was Young.

More Shayari by Pushkar Bisht
28 Jun 2008 No Comment

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