Mortified
cold
Empty
of all living reflections
Still,
on his bottom
Tucked
On
the traditional stool
With
his lonely gazing eyes
Fixed
on the field
Where
he had watched them play
The
memories of yesteryears
Flooding
his mind
Like
it was only yesterday
He
sat, his chin erect
Perturbed
by the wind of time
Of
dotted growing graves
Taking
their places assertively
In
his deserted homestead
Like
ant hills unrelenting
To
a waken his lose
Drawing
to his eyes
Filtering
tears of pain
That
finally streamed his cheeks
In
painful reminiscence
Of
their past together
