An old man used to squat in a dimly lit hut.
He was eighty above, and tall and fair,
But now wizened and crooked.
Hundred evenings I saw him naked,
And counted his protruding rusted ribs,
And oft my eyes glued to his sculptured face.
Never had I seen him laugh or weep,
A stoic look he wore, and passed his dead days,
Muttering and mumbling.
A thousand tales his eyes cherished to tell,
Tales of rose and war and hunger days,
But where were the listeners?
Outside it was dark, and the smell of the wood,
The sparkling stars and the scythe moon
And the silver leafless trees spun a tale of their own.
@abusiddik 5th Sept, 2018.