The Squeal
Standing on the crest of my life
Reached with punch and some fire
Wonder I still, what the squeal
Of the gate closing be like
Carrying as it might be
A message lurking
That the years of indulgence
Of running as free as a deer
On the highlands boundless
Of thoughts and abstraction
And of diligence and sweat
Had run out of steam
To be never refired again
As in time would stop by
The Retirement,
To take its final call.
Copyright © Pramod Rastogi | Year Posted 2019
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