"The Torn Collar Shirt"

The torn collar shirt,
which had stood by through everything,
is now thrown away.

Yet it still lingers,
used as a mop.

Like an old grandfather
lying on the charpoy
in the corridor,
standing guard over the house.
He wards off strangers, monkeys, dogs,
but no sound comes from his mouth;
only a whisper slips forth.

(From my collection of old poems)