On a path where apples are fallen from a bough

I pick the ripen ones and discard the younger ones.

I discard the younger apples.

Likewise, I cannot discard my age which is growing older.

Is spring always a fresh joy and a green journey of a thousand miles lasting throughout the age?

How youth unfurls the question of dying age,

Is this an answer replied by time?

The youth is passing and the time is flowing like the river.

Older age brings memories of youth.

The time is a thief,

It steals the golden years of solitude.

Pushes a multitude of attachment

And again drives one alone

To recall the youth gone,

And the spring in the mind undone.

By Sushant Thapa

From: Nepal

Website: https://litsushant.blogspot.com/

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