Another Day

Spring is back with its unmistakeable intoxicants. I stand, once again, by a road that leads to another day. My mind hums ceaselessly, one day at a time.... A cobbler displays his craft on my shoes' ruins, With funny looking tools. Although I hear a cuckoo's call from a faraway corner Of the masquerading morning, I am yet to decide: how to embark on one more day. Like the bird's cooing my uncertain voice reverberates. And like the shoemaker, I resolve To exhibit my talent by writing poetry of Forgotten buds, a memoir. Was it on a spring day Man landed on the moon? I cannot even remember the year of my First malancholy kiss. Everytime I try to recall the past, A smokescreen obscures my retracing senses. I grope blindly and stumble on punctuations On faded pages of my gypsied verses. This day too demands, like every other day, for Another day out of my life, knowing very well I am not equipped with authority of calling it A day. So, I begin this day with repairs and losses, Taking grey steps on a blank recto folio of my biography, Gazing at an undefined skyline. With my illiterate fingertips imitating a pilgrimage, On dislocated keys of a piano called - Autumn in Spring, Which coughs out hoarse tunes, I fumble With rememberances of evaporated seasons. I see, some Rain-soaked yards away, A home for the aged with a skyblue gate, on which It is written - you are never too old to have fun.