An Elegy for the Ephemeral

Far from the madding crowd of the city,
On a park bench sitting balky,
An old man sat singing the blues,
Of worldly actions and virtues…

Of unfathomed love he spoke,
His toughened heart he did uncloak,
For his beloved led him through,
Feelings, oh so difficult to construe…

Her unclouded voice, her mystical eyes,
To her beauty he did remise,
The mirage lasted all but one night,
Moments of which, were, alas… finite.

I see the old man sing ever since,
Of quaint love and its footprints,
A lump in my throat piles onto the visual,
As I listen to … The elegy of the ephemeral.

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