An ageing man’s lament

The ageing man stood before the mirror
Round face, oval.
“Hey, what is wrong with the mirror?
Is it smudged?
How has the grey materialized on my crown?
And that Mephistophelian frown? Those lines?
Some time back, they were not there
And the hair?
Is it fair?
Here yesterday, and gone today?
First it was gray, now no hair!
Why doth that smudged face glare?
Oh no, this glaring I cannot bear
How have I suddenly become follicly challenged?
And my memory plays tricks.
Life has become a weird mix
Of bits and pieces, alas.” He mumbled.

Something stirred inside his body.
It was the small voice speaking in a powerful baritone.
“This will go on, till life goes on, stop this endless groan.
Life will anyway cease, and the mirror crack from side to side.
The glare, and the frown, the wrinkle and hairless crown
Will all be lost, and in history go down.
So give life one more shot.
Stop cribbing, stop dying every minute, and start living.”

With a vigor new, the ageing figure smiled
His smile became bigger, his face once again round.
As he jumped into the maelstrom of a new day
Sans wrinkles, sans frowns, eyes focused on the azure skies
Sans grumbling and cantankerous sighs.
To new pastures bound .

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