Every evening
this frail old man I saw
with a clutch walking
alone to the park
and then sitting
on the same wooden bench
mumbling something
to himself
oblivious to all that
which went by
and hours he would
there abide--

he would then
take out from his pocket
a faded photo
and stare at it
obsessed
for a long while
as he uttered
a deep sigh--
walking by
I could see
a silent tear
in his eye-

'twas not
my intention to spy
it was my daily walk
as I lived nearby-

next
he would write
something
on a little sheet
he brought along
as he looked away
at the evening sky-

he did give me
a nod once a while
( I was many years younger)
perhaps an avuncular look
and on some odd occasions
a suppressed smile-

was he trying
to say:
'young man
sorry I do feel
for you--youth
is but the gate-way
to pain and despair
which time could not heal.....?'

that silence
between us
at a point of time
shook my entire being
suspended my thinking
I stopped walking
looked at him
from a short distance
it was an experience
I could not describe
and my very feeling
was mysteriously drawn
to that lonely fellow-being
as though we were bonded
in a strange kinship
and somehow bore
the common mark
of sorrow and suffering--
or
what was I
just imagining?

dusk began
its tender descent
the last light
was fading

I saw him rising
from where he was sitting
then walking past the field
he disappeared
from my sight--

hungry and tired
I was at that trembling hour
but didn't want to rush home
but stood motionless instead
as though held in place
by some unknown power.