Our Grandfather. Clock.

What remains of a shrunken body
Is an abandoned pendulum in a middle of a night
Going tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock
In you your fond armchair;
Hanging upside down in hope of turning time
Backwards.

Across years, somewhere
A baby
Rocking in a makeshift hammock cradle
Of its mother's cotton sari
Slept comfortably, oblivious
Of a written obituary.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock -
Perpetuation in its laborious progress
Like the wheels of a train speeding
And a young man seated within got impatient
To arrive at a destination, irrelevant.
How did you learn to wait placidly for autumn leaves to -?

(Appeared on Kritya)