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Poem

In slower pace older men walk and bend,
some hung their heads and limp with age,
their drooping shoulders unable to stand,
Greater demands of a new climate change.

Growing old on earth has a heavy cross to bear,
We stop and stare, at lines drawing a trace,
illumined by deeds of heroics shrinking in the air,
like pangs of breath fading slower in the race.

Having consistent plans from the heavenly land,
with God, every prayer, rake up the testimony,
In withered veins, the crumpled temples stand,
On sublime realm, with the innumerable company.

Carrying crosses borne through the fiery years,
Too heavy to find who will share the burden,
In solitude, their lives find dreams and tears,
brightly beams when at first their acts began.

A butterfly, tumbling down upon pane knees,
In stages, sages try to conquer unpleasant storms,
They will come and be blown away by the breeze,
The light in life goes before the ugly winter comes.

Growing old has a halo of a lovely state below,
here we only know, the quenched breath stored,
in relic web of gloom and the tremor of pains flow,
but in paradise renew, immortal bodies restored.

Together we grow old laughing, but not as loud,
When we do hug the arms decide to move safe,
Around the poles worlds apart from the new crowd,
and create joy in the growing years we inherit.

Upon the hearth from birth, a volume of names lies, 
Swept along on the floor, the pile that we adore
Burned ashes drifting from earth towards the skies, 
In the mists of silence that passage dream no more.

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