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Who says old is gold in the Geriatric ward..

What a sight it is, when these people moan,
With their glottis frill and shiver as the drones,
When the dessert sand folded under the hot sun,
And the cold moon, the hiding venomous villains,
Happily out to conquer the body and the spirit,
Clucking of the throats, whistling from the kettles,
Calling the names of the Gods, fetal in shape,
Signaling of the erected and demolished vital organs,
Regrets are the waste in their last minutes,
Solidarity fence of solitude crossed by the pact,
Dressed in white, green, pink and blue uniforms,
Bottles of capsules and tablets afraid of the vials,
Worn out human have helplessly dried on the bed,
Many want to suffer, telling the life saying mantras,
The care takers in the daughters are confused in despair,
The bonds have been broken in a slow and steady pause,
As the oxidation of the papers in the old books,
What remains here is ‘the expecting event’, yet to happen,
Everyone has their own appointments, work and leisure,
The squeezed out clothes on the tables of butchers,
The old human has nothing but the suffering,
The young are preoccupied with their planning,
The screams can be silenced through dispensing or tranquilizers,
The weeping souls moans and calls the Gods as saviors.

Submitted: Monday, July 01, 2013
Edited: Thursday, July 25, 2013


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  • Tirupathi Chandrupatla (7/4/2013 7:15:00 AM)

    Troubles of turning old are clearly placed before the eyes. Nice poem.

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  • Dave Walker (7/2/2013 2:09:00 PM)

    A powerful poem, a great write.

  • Gajanan Mishra (7/1/2013 11:39:00 AM)

    good poem, we are our saviors not gods. we are responsible forour actions not gods, we are getting the fruits of our actions not the gods, I like this poem very much, Thanks Subbu,10

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