Worldly Life

In a ramshackle desolate room, an old decrepit man sits alone.

He sits alone with a heavy look in his weary eyes.

A sullen look was etched on his countenance,

as the sadness of the years left its lasting marks on his wrinkled face.

A gloomy look of sadness has become an integral part of his melancholic countenance.

He sits pondering on a dilapidated chair.

A wobbly chair with shaky legs.

Staring through the cracks of his room's window.

He could see little boys playing noisily,

among the neglected wilted plants in his ruined garden.

They play and laugh in excessively joyous manner and in high spirits way.

They are playing around, carelessly crushing the remains of the wilted plants under their feet.

The plants that used to be watered by his hopes and dreams.

The cherished remains of these dried plants are being trodden upon,

so carelessly under mindless sloppy feet.

The carefree and playful feet which belong to the bright faces,

who think that the flowers on their faces are an everlasting blooming.

The eternal flowering that has nothing to do with the next fall.

The withered old man gets angry and tries to stand up and shout at those boisterous boys.

But he could see now the gloomy autumn clouds looming over the distant horizon.

The inevitable autumnal ending  for all the flowers unaware of the passage of time.

So, he sits in his dilapidated chair again, with a very tiny spiteful simile,

that might seem noticeable now on his wilted face.