THE OLD YOUTHS 

​They wear medicated eyeglasses,

For clear vision.

They look above the eyeglasses,

For clearer vision.
Their hands shake like a leaf swinging in the air,

Because of their tired muscles.

Their body cuts on every touch,

Because of their worn out skin.
Vocally they tremble,

Because their pitch is on the verge of expiration.

Mentally they are withered,

Like a green leaf soaked in hot water.
IQ test comes out negative,

A result that brings no shock.

Like a dilapidated house, their smartness depreciates.

Obsolete ideas are mixed with contemporary plans.
But they still seat in those exalted chambers,

Claiming boss to all and sundry.

With the help of their secretaries,

They sign the documents that come to their table.
Everyday they turn down the youths,

Who with their stress-earned certificate seek for the lesser chambers.

Yet everyday they tell the world,

The youths are the leaders of tomorrow.
What and when is tomorrow?

A question they refuse to understand. Who and where are the youths?

A query letter they cared less to reply.
So the youths, resigning to fate cry out everyday.

In a loud and agonizing voice they make their petitions.

“Our help is in the name of Lord, who made heaven and earth.”

©E C Michaels 


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