It was hard to say
What he was.
One would think he was a centaur.
He was old-
As old as man’s greed.
“No one can ever grow older”,
Thought the child.
“Neither I wish to see
the tears of the fading flowers;
Nor I wish to hear
The cries of the falling rain”,
Spoke the man, his head drooping
The horse’s body writhing in darkness.
He was of the past-
The so- called times immemorial.
A soul left behind
To witness the resurrection of the humanity.
The child-
She gave life to his once dead dreams.
His human eyes longed to see
The colour of her world.
His horse mane longed to be stroke
By the breeze of her world.
He longed to belong-
To someone, somewhere.
But her world-
No one seemed to notice
Her old centaur- the half man, the half horse.
No one seemed to hear
His animal cries and violent screams.
Through him they passed
As if he was a portrait drawn in air.
She never knew of the unseen hands
That pierced out their minds’ eyes.
The old centaur wept
As the tiny fingers stroke his mane
And he never knew
Once the unseen hands of time shall pierce out
Her eyes too, shutting him out of her world!!
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