Advice
Don't call my quick temper a flaw,
Don’t say my forgetfulness is a half-mind’s law.
Perhaps my nerves have worn thin,
Once, I cherished you all within.
As people grow old, they may get irritable,
When the joy of life has become unbearable.
Like the sun nearing its final descent,
Its warmth fades, and it starts to relent.
The old man is quick to rise, quick to calm,
Shouting, causing chaos with alarm.
Before the red sun sinks from the sky,
It rushes, trying to catch every moment, oh so spry.
Only the patient keeps their wits intact,
The wise grow old with grace, in fact.
Like a crimson light that spreads around,
When it leaves, it fades without a sound.
But still, tomorrow it will cross the hill,
And behind, children will cry, and they will.
But the legacy left, a shining trace,
Will turn into moonlight’s embrace.
My children, do not worry when I’m gone,
Do not grieve, and do not let sorrow drag you on.
Read the five poems I’ve left behind,
They’ll guide you through the darkness you might find.
Copyright © Aibek Kalmaganbetov | Year Posted 2025
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