Old Times

 

Worn out pages.

Speak of old times again

When people were my father's height,

When the mango trees held mangoes

And were not just trees,

And the telephone posts were endless

When we counted from a train's window,

When the kites flew,

And our hearts flew with them,

And after all these accidents,

Our mother's laps were ours,

And our tears, hers.

10th Jan'77