Age crept up on him in stealth,
careful not to tread upon a dry twig
in the garden of his memories,
careful not to disturb
the butterflies, the bees,
the tiny hummingbirds and koels,
which, drunk on nectars,
in happy abandon,
sang their songs all day long.
His ears, once, were keen,
picking up every note, every tone
every trill, however shrill.
and he swayed to the music
and sashayed on occasion
as he walked through his garden
humming their songs
and caressing those flowers.
And now that the tumult of youth
had left subdued
and speed gave way to grace,
he could now detect
that his breathing was louder
than all that music,
that he heard it above all else
like a loud metronome
which only he could hear.
He'd now lie awake often,
listening to the night rain
come roaring down in fury
and leaving soon after
and then the raindrops from the roof
drumming merrily upon the puddles
and he'd also listen, above it all,
to the sound of his own breath
beating a slow rhythm.
Then, just like that,
came a day when,
all on a sudden,
the sun froze in mid air.
and so too, the butterflies
and the hummingbirds.
the flowers wilted and drooped
and silence fell upon the garden
with a terrible crash.
and above that crescendo,
he heard his own rasping breath.
he heard nothing more.