the wise man

Wise men had risen, wise men did fall;

I have a wise man as neighbor, who still stands tall.

Bulbul is one chatterbox, she dances, and her colours change everyday, and along with that changes her song. Grey, White, Black and all the unknown colours of feathers, all are my one Bulbul. But my Bulbul ain’t loyal, one moment she is in my balcony, the next she is on the shoulders of my tall wise neighbour.

He is one glamorous fellow. He wears all the colours and is quite highbrow too I must say. He also wears a cap. The tall wise neighbor I call Solomon has witnessed a million sunsets. Solomon can be seen from any corner of the city and more alarmingly Solomon can see you from anywhere around.

Solomon intimidates me. I am not a fan, may be because he is a man, ‘The Man’. He dares the sun during the day and flirts with the stars at night. He never ages, just gets wiser. He even has inks of words and designs on him, I mean how cool is that. He has gotten some loyal followers, admirers among my Bulbuls, all of whom are but just one to me.

Solomon is ‘The Man’, Solomon weakens me, Solomon reminds me of all that I am not. But then again I am all that Solomon can never be, even if some day I might just become Solomon.