OLD SONGS

Don’t aim for me when I’m gone,
when all there’s left are memories of old songs I sung;
don’t aim with roses or with a gun,
when all there’s left are memories of the tears and fun…

The birds have migrated to the West my love,
each and every empty nest now boasts of only a story,
which you, my poet, would sing in prose,
sing and sing and sing of all our glory…

The birds won’t return in the Summer, my love,
they have faced the dreaded Winter winds,
they revel in the nip and dance in the frost,
they’ve left memories of Spring behind..

The birds don’t sing anymore, my love,
they dance to a music only they can hear,
they kindle flames and therein burn,
then rise again, amid festive cheer…

Don’t aim for me when I’m gone,
but sing old songs we both have sung;
don’t aim with roses, or with a gun,
forget the tears, my love, remember the fun,
forget the tears… remember the love…

© Isha Garg
Doodle by Isha Garg

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