Comes surely a stage, a condition and an age
When one cannot stir out: with none to talk to
None even to greet you without affection
Age advanced, unavoidable with helplessness
Memories throng by myriads, sweet, sour
Sad, pensive, sensitive and sentimental.
The damsel buxom, blithe and unforgotten
Now decrepit, with eyes sunken and hair thin
Spectacles thick, bent, walking with a stick
It makes you a little contented – still to be able
To think, muse over, look within and around
Bliss is a condition of the mind: fruition.
