The old guard

On a chair, rusty and dusty

Broken from leg, supported by plank

There sits an old man in uniform

His face is pale and eyes are blank

A stain on his torn uniform

And his hairs are all clumsy, grey and white

His hand, though strong, shakes,

And he remains awake the whole night

His voice echoes the streets and lanes

To ask the inhabitants, to make them awake

But in heart, he knows, all are asleep

Leaving on his old shoulders, their whole stake

He walks from corner to corner,

Taps the shutters and ground with his cane

His mates, the street dogs, follow him

His routine is same, in summer, winter or in heavy rain

When effete, he sits on his broken, old chair

His immobile companion of the night

He thinks of his family, the one who left him

In the age when he is old, and having dim eye sight

He is there always, the guard of the night

He is honest and sincere, doesn't have any complain

Or perhaps life has taught him a lesson

That to complain is all in vain

He, thus, each night, picks his hat and cane

And walks in streets and that dirty lane

Even if it is shivering cold or heavy rain

He walks, wiping tears, enduring the pain