Years Pass, Hope Should Not Poem by Ananta Madhavan

The world is coeval with me.
When I was young it was young.
There was a needless lilt
In the tilt of a butterfly;
There was a random rain of events
That did not have to make sense.


In middle age, my world seemed to middle.
It kept up with the sogginess.
Seconds before the world opened its mouth
I knew what it was going to say.
The dew had dried, the new smell's gone away.


Now I am old, the world is turning old.
Between the pulling of the lever
And the locking of the points, a creaky delay.
Nothing will obey me, even the faculties
Turn untrustworthy ministers. But I don't grope
For excuses to rejoice or hope.