I am ninety one now,
A rare member of a
Generation past,
On the verge of a welcome extinction,
Perhaps your father
Might have forgotten or
At least couldn’t find time
To tell about me.
Those were times
I, in my dhoti walked miles
Bare foot in the raw nature
To earn knowledge, hunt love
And fight for freedom,
Hot matters were chewed
And debated in village corners,
Groups and societies were formed
At every town circle,
We had a purpose to comb,
A reason to dress
And meaning to live
Your Dad even couldn’t understand me
Oh grandson I forgive you!
this is a trauma of every freedom fighter still alive… well written poem…
trauma of every freedom fighter still alive!
Hi
Very realistic..how true your lines are.
The poem is realistic. Thank God we do not have the real sacrificers to see what is happening in the country . The relm of politice is worse than a gutter. Power mogerers lurking everywhere. Will there be one more Mahatma every hundred years to save the country? Lets wait with hope.