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.

Welcome, old Comrade! peeping once again;
Our meeting ’minds me of a pleasant hour:
Spring’s pencil pinks thee in that blushy stain,
And Summer glistens in thy tinty flower.

Hail, Beauty’s Gem! disdaining time nor place;
Carelessly creeping on the dunghill’s side;
Demeanour’s softness in thy crimpled face
Decks thee in beauties unattain’d by pride.

Hail, ’Venturer! once again that fearless here
Encampeth on the hoar hill’s sunny side;
Spring’s early messenger! thou’rt doubly dear;
And winter’s frost by thee is well supplied.

Now winter’s frowns shall cease their pelting rage,
But winter’s woes I need not tell to thee;
Far better luck thy visits well presage,
And be it thine and mine that luck to see.

Ah, may thy smiles confirm the hopes they tell
To see thee frost-bit I’d be griev’d at heart;
I meet thee happy, and I wish thee well,
Till ripening summer summons us to part.

Then like old mates, or two who’ve neighbours been,
We’ll part, in hopes to meet another year;
And o’er thy exit from this changing scene
We’ll mix our wishes in a tokening tear.