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
