No clue

Born on four and a score.
In a month that’s that, divided by four.
In a year of the fat lady and one.
To a couple he was the second son.

“Made for something great”.
Exclaimed a rustic soothsayer.
He lived a while in a dream.
Feel sorry for the poor fair player.

And today he seeks himself.
For he lost it all somewhere.
A touch of love somehow.
A word or two of care.

And five days go by.
He looks up at the sky.
Blinks as the sun shines with glee.
He whispers, “Still, Happy Birthday to me.”

You’re me.
I’m you.
Why those additions?
No clue.

Varun Rajagopalan.