Old Age

When I am old (I mean older) I will
Not accept what the young will let me have:
My booming laugh will scare my pretensions
Of wisdom away. I’ll be fun, talk light
And smile at will; when working men pass by,
All brown and stretched by the long working hours
I’ll talk of lazy summer noons and soft
Evenings; I will wash away my kindness.

I’ll spend my fortunes (if someday I’m rich)
On flippant things: maybe I’ll learn to fly,
Or spend my weekends seeking sunken gold
In Bahamas all alone; I will try
New things: I’ll wear red when I please and paint
My house the deepest purple shade; I’ll eat
What I desire, drink rum on afternoons,
And pretend to chase all the prettiest girls.

When I am old (I mean older) I will
Grow eccentric. But still on winter nights
When I’m alone (which will be every night)
I’ll write (till weary eyes permit) the poems
I write to you: that will not change with age.
Like an old fruit, wrinkled and ripe, I’ll slide
Into blank nothingness carrying just your thoughts:
I’ll persist, still unfulfilled, still yearning.

Diptesh Ghosh