Seems etched in the myriad of lines<
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Which crease his brown weathered face,
Framed by that free flowing beard.
Trinkets, small and useless
Lie spread before him on the ground,
An excuse for him to remain there,
For years and years, all bygone.
Seven score and five
he says he is,
Wandering that ancient palace all his life,
Reliving the grandeur of those kings
Who once there regally did reside.
His ageing limbs no longer support him,
To escort us through those arched hallways,
Yet his eyes sparkle alive, full of zest,
And his words still hold a magical sway.
Faultlessly he converses with you,
Telling you tales, keeping you hooked,
He fluently speaks the tongue of those lands
Which he does not even know exist.
I watch you as you are enchanted by him,
And fall deeper in love with you,
Seeing you revel in the pulsating present,
Be it an ageing fakir on Fateh-Pur-Sikri’s
doorstep…
