An old, rusted, van,
Moving as slow as it can,
In a fast, speedy, busy road.

Frustrated by the speed,
I overtake them to see,
A load of crying hearts in it.

Filled with old men and women,
The van was from an old age home,
A banner displayed “Ever happy old age home�

For a minute my mind wondered,
Slowed down my bike to hear their talks,
Just to understand the ironic banner.

A lady by the window, her locks displaying her age,
With tears rolling down her cheeks,
Jeering to see a happy family traveling in a car.

Another gentleman dressed well for his age,
Says “my son in US, leaving me here, gives lot of money�
A tear in the corner of his eyes longing for his dear ones.

A couple sitting next to the driver spoke,
“Ah! That little boy should be our grandson’s age�
And both sigh together with memories.

Why didn’t those ruthless sons and daughters think?
At least for a minute, all that these old people had done,
For them to be doctors, businessmen, and software engineers.

They can give them loads and loads of money,
But would it be equal to their presence?
Or like a hand to wipe off their tears.

Another old woman walked slowly with her walking stick,
Boarded the van, waved goodbye to her granddaughter,
Wiped away her tears and said, “you be good to your mom�

I thought of the irony and her pain,
Why this poor state, will they ever see happiness?
Green signal for me, they still stood in red…