The lawn looks green
from a distance,
going near I find
it to be in tufts,
similar to an head
with knots of hair
unevenly grown.
Even closer, they
appear to be in streaks,
long, thin and thorny
akin to an head
on the verge of turning
bald.
There is no grass whatsoever
just prickly plants that pierce
through the soles of the shoes
hurt the feet with a spasm.
Withdrawing as quick as possible
I turn back limping.
Krishna, my gardener, rushes in.
Cuts the thorns and weeds.
He avoids my eyes. I keep mum.
Controlling my indignation,
I talk to myself in a subdued tone,
“Krishna is growing old, forgive him”.
Meenas Poems 