Old Age Poem by Prof Niamat Ali Murtazai

A severe torture is called the old age
Man looks like an old book's torn, worn page.

Wrinkled cheeks, the ruins of rosy youth
Tell us what is Nature's permanent truth.

Wounded bones cry of pain like withered flowers
And often remember the long lost hours.

Delicious world seems to be atasteless yam
Full of turmoil minds seek for recess calm.

So hard is to pass through old age's desert
All are lost whether naive or expert.

Make preparations for this last uphill task
You will have to obey what others ask.