Who says we take life for granted,
We celebrate it each year we live,
The only festival not apparent in calendars,
The only day we are happy to give.

The ebullient jollification of life,
Which marks the day of our birth,
All friends and relatives muster at one place,
To be inebriated in the joyous mirth.

The same innocent, innocuous, creature,
Who remains unimportant for the rest of year,
For this one day rules like a King,
Becomes the dude everyone wants to hear.

Currency hibernating in the warm pockets for winters,
Fluxes out as if it is already spring,
One who is left wanting for seasons,
Suddenly has nothing more left to bring.

For the girls the day arrives like a secret messenger,
As their age is most enigmatic secret they hide,
Never trust the candles on the earth B-Day cakes,
“Cause more than 20 is a matter of pride.”

Many materialists treat it as a barter ceremony,
Where mean pecuniary underlies all the gag,
It is when the hierarchy of the friends and foes is sorted,
The soul criterion is their gift's price tag.

Then there are the hapless destitutes,
Whose desolate pockets have nothing to give,
When every next moment is a struggle for survival,
Each victory is celebrated as a chance to live.

This day signifies the valor of humanity,
Solemnizing the annual attrition of life,
If every loss is celebrated in the same manner,
We can derive pleasure from every strife.

They say every dog has his day,
I say the same for man,
These milestones will keep marking the highway,
The most adventurous highway called a lifespan.