There comes a time in everybody's life
When one keeps floating and flowing
In a dreamy
And dramatic way,
Feeling free and uninhibited,
Smiling with the flowers,
Talking to
And smiling
In the adda of his own,
A hero in the making
Stylistic and fashionable,
Becoming the matter of the talk
Of the side heroines
And the heroine.
But there also a comes a time in the life
Of the hero
When he starts falling,
The flowers come not into the sweet dreams,
Under the stars and the moon
And their mysterious twinkles and moonshine,
Babbles he not,
Smiles he not,
Prefers to be alone,
Returning dejected and forlorn
From the Love City
Of the beloved,
Slapped by the hardcore realities
Of this real life.
O young man playing the role
Of a musician,
A singer
Or an announcer,
Life is not the stage of a theatre,
Life is not
What you envisage
Into the sweet dreams of yours,
Life not so imaginative and fanciful,
Look back on those
Who struggle, sacrifice and suffer
And for whom look you
A hero,
But that too is coming to a close
With the theatre closing down!
Frustrated and forlorn, the romantic
Returning into the steps of his,
Fatigued and depressed
After being beaten
on the life front
And failed,
Loved and lost,
Flirted and deceived he
And now life deceiving
And betraying him
For what he did,
What he took it for romanticism
As to love and abandon
Is not at all romanticism
And to dress stylistically too is not
As a loafer too dresses in the likewise manner.