Our itch  and Sketch.

“  our   Beauties  are not ours”.

Autumnal Flowers, the ground

Smeared, loaded with  uncanny

Leaves, the  broken sounds

Of  aridity on the  pond, nearby.

Age  has its toll on them too.

We  are no exceptions, wrinkles

On our  skin, the itch and  sketch,

Are  the  undoubted  monopoly

Of  Age. Age’s doing and undoing.

 Oh! Man! Slow  on your steer, 

  Let  the Clutches  be under your

  Purview. Our  Beauty is  only

  A passing shadow. In  due course

  They  are our  Beauties are

  At  the mercy of Beauty parlour.