'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