Having served in militia in his youth,
With strength, unkindness and foul mouth,
He now stood guard to a building entrance
In a frayed green uniform, wearing out like him.
Never tired of fatigue or monotony of his job,
He went mellow only when it rained,
Rained and rained; and the daylight
Would go sombre, but he’d still be at work.
He would ask any unknown passer-by,
If they could read to him a poem,
Startled and ridiculed no one kept his request
And he never knew what it’d feel like.
Even if I could compose an ode for him
Right at that very moment, I didn’t; and decided to
Let the charm of life to live in unlikeliest possibilities
And raised a toast to the splendour of truth.