Old man and his grandson stroll down the lane
filled with memories of one’s-
to other, a worn out trail.
When musings paint not the picture of days gone
nor the boy’s mumbling reach the old ears;
they walk in known silence
and holding hands bridge the years.
This entry was posted in Poetry on by .

About Rahul Aithal

I am from Mumbai, India. Composing poems gives me immense pleasure. Few poetic sites I write on are -,, and, recently Avant-Garde-Writer's Haven (on Facebook). You could browse my other writes on my private blog, I am glad to have joined this site, thanks to Louis. I hope to add value and get the group going.

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