Some stories I heard,
Of chirping birds.
Visiting the lonely old man.
Consumed by solitude, sitting idle, under his fan.
Day to day, the birds would come.
See the old man, sitting there, numb.
Who sends them, he thought.
‘Cause all he had was a visitor drought.
It’s been years and nobody has ever come by.
Now he waits and waits, as his time flies.
The birds, they bring their music to his ears.
Soothing the life of pain, he bears.
From the day he had been left alone. His eyes had never really shone.
Gaiety was beyond his ken.
Trapped alone in his den.
He’d heard them talk,
About the joy that old age bought.
What never occurred to him,
Was that it must be because of some of his sins.
Flashbacking his life, every tiny bit of it.
He remembered the day, his son learnt to sit.
The first ‘papa’ still echoed his ears.
Even after all these years.
Then his son started to walk.
Slowly, steadily – talk.
He gave him his patience.
Keeping him safe in his mother’s haven.
His teenage years, were not so clear.
That rebellious behaviour, his father couldn’t bear.
He wondered where his teaching had gone wrong.
What made his son forget, where he belonged.
He soon grew up to be a man.
Surely, not like his father had planned.
Whose inheritance it was, so vicious.
He blamed and blamed, himself, who else.
As he and his son began to repel.
His ideal son. His only sun.
Left his father outdone.