Ravi Srivastava
Night turns to day, and day to night,
I lose a few more hair;
The ones that stay are turning white,
Increasing my despair.
My sorrow makes me wonder if,
I’ll have any for you;
When you become as old as I,
To run your fingers through.
What will you rumple or caress,
Or try to gently kiss;
When my topmost is dark and smooth,
Won’t you my tresses miss?
We two will make a funny pair,
At least that is my view
When mine are lost but you have yours,
Won’t you lend me a few?