"Under the tree, a mighty man
With his smoked coal iron
Just in the exit gate"
No, I don't need the 'Sunday' kind of love.
Which ends before you really feel it started.
I took my steps towards it for me I was young and fit,
I touched the surface,
The plain smooth base.
You kiss on my forehead
And asides my wrinkles
You pinch my cheeks
When I catch a glimpse of wrinkled hands of opposite genders supports each other,
While stepping into a car,
But the reminder of youth,
Which fades away slowly with time,
Reflecting wrinkles as the ageing sign
Grandma's hands map a bonvoyage,
From hope to days of strife.
They once were young and not so mature of age,
She asked me what
If I will lose my dimples,
Will you still be mine?
So dear, let me tell you that
Should your complexion
Be less than perfection,
It is really the mirror
That needs correction.
Wrinkles telling the story of age
Time stood still, from the last meal
Tic- toc gives a rhythm to the act