In his own class
His ninety summers’ lens focus
On the fine print
To uncover the hidden tint!

All his peers long gone
He cheerfully carries on
In a way he isn’t mortal anymore
And death would never knock his door!

But for occasional drifts into past’s ember
He needs not much to remember
Except to pour over the thick bound book
Befitting his timeless wizened look!

In his nook on his lonely perch
He still isn’t tired of the search
For chancing upon that ultimate tint
Still baffling him in its blurring print!