October

How would I really grow old?
Grow a beard, wrinkles
under my bright blue eyes
and a week-long stubble
across my sad chin
of yonder years
How would I really grow old
as the skies here in Calcutta
ridicule my envy
my rage impotent
like the clouds here in Calcutta
my beloved, that don’t burst
and smear a lot of sorrows
along the city highways
How would I really grow old
among my rains and my sunshine
and my bleak winter cold?