'the Platform Old'
His nails are curled like snails
Beard, wet as a net failed to bail
Eyes looked sad as a fish
Having nothing in front to wish.
He murmured something to do bushes
Feeling was awkward to the rumors
Muttering meanings to the gushes
Sweating salts to the toes.
Waving hands to the 'odds'
Weeping eyes smiled to the rocks
Was in chains of iron
Free of bounds of bitter strain.
Sane, he was a judge in jury,
Destined to be chained in 'fury'.
Litty Lokanath
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