Saturday, February 28, 2009
Those were the times.
That was the life.
Frozen in history books.
Trapped in old wrinkled eyes.
They must have smiled like us.
They must have danced.
After getting high on whiskey and Jazz,
They too, like us, must have romanced.
They must have drank life's nectars,
Like we drink now.
Yet we think they were just they,
And we are better off somehow.
Now they are framed on walls,
For all to see.
And we stand against them,
Becoming a part of history.
The only difference being-their portraits have been taken by time.
While you my friend, have been shot by me.
(Inspired by Abhay's Snapshot against the Rising Red.)