Wrinkled hands clutch worn wooden canes,
Shuffling past, unseen, unheard, unnamed.
You rush by, averting eyes from my weathered face,
Blind to the tapestry of years I've laced.
Once, I danced in Singapore's gilded halls,
Fled war's fury, scaled fortune's falls.
I loved a pilot who kissed the sky,
His crash, my heart's unending cry.
I wandered Europe's cobbled streets,
Penned verses of loss and bittersweet.
In Seville's sun, I found my stage,
A genteel beggar, an artful sage.
You see a crone, a burden, naught but old,
Not the tales of fire and ice I hold.
My eyes, though dimmed, have witnessed war and peace,
My voice, though soft, once made the mighty cease.
If I should stumble, fall upon the stone,
You'd rush to help, but only flesh and bone
Would you perceive – not spirit, not the soul
That burns still bright, though body's no longer whole.
You pat my hand, all pity, no real care,
Convinced that you'll never be caught in age's snare.
But time ticks on, relentless in its march,
And you too shall pass beneath its arch.
Remember, then, these words from one who knows:
Behind each lined face, a universe grows.
In every elder's step, a lifetime treads,
Invisible worlds crown our silver heads.