He was thinking of a way till the hay turn gray,

Sitting all day and not a wise word to say.

He would have his moments

Sorrow and fun, he was just like others

But he would never run

Yet he had, no friends to fiddle

 

As he grew he did meet a few,

The feeling was indeed – new.

Time went by as they flew apart

It was beer soon and not lemon tart

He dunked and drank

Occasionally, pulled a prank

Yet he had, no friends to fiddle

 

The tanks galore, he was sent ashore

Fighting for his people, he still felt alone

There were many a priests and motifs profound

He longed soon for his 6 feet of ground

Knowing not what he had in store

He moved on to inspire a dozen

Yet he had, no friends to fiddle

 

A breeze so sweet and a woman came by,

Back again he was on a high

Life’s testimony was not yet over

He had found his four leaf clover

That was when he was on a roll

Every evening he would go for a stroll

He knew some souls who he met very often

Yet he had, no friends to fiddle

 

That was the day, yesterday,

Now he is no one new

There are still people

So does he say?

He eyes seem waiting, till this day

Yet he has, no friends to fiddle.

 

-              By Abhinandan Chatterjee