During There is a dark place between

Seventy and seventy five: broad

Like memory, deep like death.

Those trapped there have no return.

They roam about in the childhood bushes

Or fall headlong into the well of decrepitude.

Be warned if those between seventy and seventy five

Behave like the young: for, they are young.

They can love, can dance to music, and if need be

Even lead a war or a revolution. In fact

They are not dead, like most young are.

Those between seventy and seventy five

May suffer from delusions: at times they want

A horse-ride; at times want to fly above oceans and mountains

On the back of an eagle, wander along deserts

Looking for water that is not there,  stand naked

In the rain, or  read a poem no one has written yet. There

Are times when they feel history is retracing its step,

And feel like crying aloud, screaming, almost.

The solitude of those between seventy and seventy five

Is sepia, like some early morning dreams or

Like the friendships in old albums. When they

Laugh, sunlight retreats into village lanes.

Their sweat smells soft like sesame flowers.

Their walk is like the descending scale of saveri (1)

And their lilting speech is littered with gamakas (2)

You wonder, why, this is all about men. Yes,

Women do not pass at all between

Seventy and seventy five; invisible to us,

They just glide along on a tender rainbow of affection,

With the soft feet of fairies fragrant like heaven

And the smile of oleanders, an invitation to salvation