Generic

Old is Gold

I'm sold to my imagination
about certain boys never growing old,
like in the same mould as a carefree fold,
always bold with their sleeves rolled
even in the cold, with adventure in the hold.

Carrying tales of old, yet many melodies untold—
as skimpy portions of memory being doled
Isn't this a sight to behold?
While the youngsters are being trolled,
you remain gold, old is gold.

For the old is rooting in the gold,
while youth flees, shaped in the mould.
For black and white rolls in from the past—
as young hues cast away with haste.
For the old, music is the soul;
While for the young, noise is the goal.

Old is gold,
for the twilight being rolled.
Your persona is not cold, rather chilling in the cold,
while the young is boiling in the mould.
With your spirit dancing in both hand and soul,
you’re not only frequenting the inn, but also receding within.
And so, youth becomes old, and old grows young.

Your magnanimous admiration and encouragement
have gleamed through gold,
and your hot pat on the back
can endure even bitter cold.
For I'm still in the mould,
but you’re already gold.

What bubbles in youth,
and what remains in the end?
For the young, red rose's sniff is dear,
and for the old, good grief's scent is near.
And the time spent penning this ode
is the classical chess time control of the old!
Because words should be inscribed in gold,
or they’ll fade, unsold.

— Aruna

    10th Nov 2024