Poetry: On the Eve of Sixty

The party is just over.
The smell of food and perfume lingers.
A piano solo by Dinu lipatti
in a quiet melodious tone.
Is it Bach?
Who cares; it is good.
Whatever I got the first day,
still I have it.
I don't blame it on that
fast swimming sperm,
who own the lottery.
Neither, do I blame the ova who accepted it.
I don't question, whether I was born
out of love or lust.
I don't blame and I don't thank either.
Thank who?
The birth is just one of the billions of billions
of incidents which happened
sixty years ago;
I didn't have any control.
Does life has any meaning?
It is a stupid question,
because life has no meaning.
Seventy, eighty, or ninety years
over twelve billion
is a pitiful fraction.
We exist, by chance,
that is a miracle by itself.
We exist because the Big Bang
happened at a precise moment;
with a precise velocity.
The rest are chains of incidents,
I didn't control them.
Life has no meaning.
We do not exist.
Yet we do.
Tomorrow I will be sixty.
"You look amazingly healthy...
Gosh! You don't look your age".
Myrna said, before she parted.
As if it is almost a sin to look amazing.
Maybe I will conjure some
sophisticated wrinkle on my face,
to make me look dignified.
A little sad and complaining face.
It might make me more acceptable to her.
Hell no, what I am I am.
I don't control ninety percent
of the incidents around me.
It is like an organism, keeps happening.
The rest of it is my own creation;
I claim it, because it is mine.
This, by itself is a hundred percent me.
Life has no meaning.
We put a meaning into it.
This is how we exist, justify.
Our ten percent
becomes ninety percent,
This evening, I received a beautiful
bouquet of flowers.
Now it is slightly dry and limp.
The fragrance is still there.