Shakespeare had all his props
Through all life’s seven stages.

Machine had whirred off stage
And all was green in the wings.

A prompter had all the words.
All you do is just rant and rave.

But uncle , you make me actor
Without rehearsal before stage

With no Shakespeare to speak
A grandiloquence from wings.

I cannot take back my silliness.
I have to live my seven stages

A compressed part in minutes.
I can’t afford to go red in face

For sounds I make out of tune.
Dear uncle, you make me cry

And laugh in the same times,
I forget a proper grease-paint

My paint makes me look silly
As I move darkened eyebrows

It is so  difficult to improvise,
Guessing what  play is about.

(On reading a beautiful poem “Life while- you- wait” by Wisława Szymborska)