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In the park, Mrs Kumawat, a wisp of a woman,
With an oxygen cylinder,
Hanging from her shoulder,
Observes an old man
Crunching fallen yellow kaneer flowers,
A golden tapestry beneath his feet...
Unnoticed by him, sits a young boy alone,
Munching a biscuit, a symphony of crumbs,
Cascading down his chin,
His joy a counterpoint to their melancholic tune.
Nearby a three-year-old, eyes sparkling,
Takes flight on the swing,
Under the watchful eyes of his father,
To the contentment of both.
Three youths’ eyes are glued to the glowing screens,
Their fingers dance across a lonely language.
Lost in conversation with their lovers,
Their youthful faces, devoid of the park’s carefree spirit,
Yearn for connections unseen.
Elsewhere, a well-built teenager plays football,
Bonding with his doubly strong father,
A testament of love galore.
The park whispers secrets, a haven for lives intertwined,
More than just trees and pathways,
It’s a tapestry woven with laughter and sighs.
A silent symphony of stories,
Waiting to be heard by those willing to listen. |
