How would I really grow old?

Grow a beard, wrinkles

under my bright blue eyes

and a week-long stubble

across my sad chin

of yonder years

How would I really grow old

as the skies here in Calcutta

ridicule my envy

my rage impotent

like the clouds here in Calcutta

my beloved, that don’t burst

and smear a lot of sorrows

along the city highways

How would I really grow old

among my rains and my sunshine

and my bleak winter cold?