A few lines,
which, in its existence,
is older than the writer,
the bard,
who scribbled the words
when he was in his 40s.
Now, how will a child
grow older than her father?
If the verses were written
with an half empty rum bottle
kept dangling near
the pen that is showing its age;
and if it is read over wine,
a young, angry, red bottle,
the cheapest possible blend,
cheaper than the recited words....
Then, it grows old, the poem;
Then, it grows old, the poem;
the writer gets younger,
and we all heave in
the brown, polluted,
yet sensuous air...
So, shall we?
-- Leslie
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