The Note

I throw a crisp, hundred rupee note,

Right out the french window bright,

It wafts in the air like a paper boat,

On a makeshift muddy stream, A Sprite,

Caresses the bill with an unformed hand,

As it floats downward to kiss the sand!

Timeless, Our father's noble visage,

Shines bright like a star in the northern sky,

Crumply lines and blots successfully deface,

A barrage, of poisoned arrows whoosh by,

The one in the sky now caked with dirt,

With grime and slime, A generous flirt!

I look out of the french window bright,

With not a hint of regret that pricks,

A callous heart unmoved by blight,

Or pain or tears or a miserable trick,

Hope that a drop of honest sweat,

Would glisten and brighten the visage,

The old man in death.