Rust Poem by Dilrukshi Bethmage

Melting dews on withered grass,
Freezing wind so cold when pass,
Falling rust from aged brass,
Sitting they see the walking mass.

Filled their hands and heads in morn,
The masses rush their way so long,
Fixed in chairs as they were born;
Is it because the destinies wrong?

Once they look into faces and walks,
Sobbing for the fortune of theirs that wept,
Then they raise the hands for the moves,
Bidding goodbyes for the ones who left.

Under the shady leaves of a giant tree,
Some are sitting and resting free,
Nobody to talk and nobody to listen;
Just watching others as they are frozen.

One with his one armed body
And the half legs that weren't steady,
Driven by his fellow wheel-chair
Talking to wind with rusty swaying hair.

Another with her whole legs and arms
Was still looking through the row of palms,
She was there; the strength was gone,
Waiting for past and died at dawn.

It is he who sits and waits
On his chair not aged but pale,
Lonely life it seems he hates,
Memories of a Warrior is just his tale.

There were many, many so far,
In that ancient house by tar.
Some on own, and some with aid,
Some were disabled and almost dead.

Destined for a life margined
They, too, love to live as imagined,
Yet how can they fulfil their dreams,
Struggling with those stormy streams?

Shining brass lamps lighted so long,
Once are blown out and fallen decayed,
Singing for brightness the fading away song;
Emerges dull rust for destinies betrayed.