Today
An old guy
In old Morris Minor
Parked
10 metres from a post office.
Half crippled,
He half made it to the door.
I took his arm
And helped him in.
So grateful was he
For so little.
As he limped out
Stooped and brittle,
I saw him back to his Morris Minor.
And he smiled
And I smiled,
Shutting the door.
Leaving him forever
-To count his pension
And me my blessings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Young man I do appreciate your kindness at the curb, So good of you to aid me there without a pleading word; The indignity of growing old: you become once more a child, You lack a strong commanding voice, you get by on a smile; You grow so weak a curb becomes a problematic trial; You move to lift a feeble leg, an inch becomes a mile; So thank you for the guiding hand, I practically am blind; Do you need a lift somewhere, driving clears my mind.