At inception the young mouth
clung to the nipples
With time hands aided and
waited to be given
Acceptable to lay tender head
on solid thighs
Later growth came and the
tree stood waiting to be worked on
till the fruits come down
now for the no longer solid
but wrinkled thighs
That’s what it’s meant to be
The grown with hope set out
to conquer and make a banquet
To the tree
Then the wind struck
almost like whips of cane
The rain a thousand pebbles pour down
The sun blazing red like hot coals
Jagged mountains arise
The grown trudge on
To feed self and the beloved old
khushijhon 