July 14
Slowly, gently it arrived—
Old age, after all these years.
The days of love, delight, and passion,
Of colours, compassion, and tender cheers.
Like scattered waste upon the shore
Of a once crystal, flowing stream,
Comes the time to simply lie,
An unused thing, a forgotten dream.
The blessing once—“May you live a hundred years”—
Now echoes almost like a curse;
To keep on living without purpose
Only deepens the silent universe.
What need remains for one like us?
Just medicine, meals, and patient care;
Morning and evening someone passes,
With a casual “Hello” in the air.
The children’s axis has shifted now;
They dance within their separate spheres.
The very steps we danced before
Have become the rhythm of their years.
The sunrise and the setting sun,
Spring, summer, monsoon, autumn’s grace—
How many cycles have I witnessed,
How many seasons left their trace!
All the wisdom I have gathered,
All the wealth earned through life’s long span,
Must journey with me in the end—
Along with honour, love, and name.
Those of my own generation
Are now so difficult to find;
Each confined within the circle
That life has quietly designed.
Our conversations live on phones—
Health updates, remedies, and care:
“This ointment works,” “Try yoga too,”
Small hopes exchanged with hearts laid bare.
Chewing over memories together,
We while away the passing days;
And if one day we’re left alone,
We softly chant Lord Govinda’s praise.
— Vidya
Translated by chat gpt
vidus 
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