Stories

The building stands; mortar, cement and brick
The stories, though are growing old, falling sick
Just like the old man who would chase you and me,
Was once young, and is now a grandfather to kids,
Who on Mischief's orders are now climbing those trees-
Only to be chased away by a young man with a stick.

The playground remains, as it used to be
Do you remember the boundary, you first hit?
The paint, every few years tries to wash away our sins
Yet, those benches still raise us a toast with a grin!
My memory is fading, and will soon be leaving
Have you held on to your part of the story-telling?

You can build a bridge, you can build a legacy
And the universe will still do what it fancies!
One Frank Sinatra will arrive on a late Thursday night
And the corridors of Hotel California will again see light
And probably there would be no one to strum your pain
With her fingers, but there will be music and champagne!

So would you not go to the van Gogh museum
Once in your lifetime?
Would you not play the strings to an Alzheimer's
If you could, when still there's time?

Zindagi aur kuch bhi nahi, teri meri kahaani hai.