These old knees are hard to move.
It's like they're set in stone.
Every movement that I take
Remind me how they've grown
Achy, sore and quite unsure
of their ability to do their job,
bending them or stooping down
without that burning throb.
I've taken them for granted
for such a long, long time.
Now I've forgotten how easy it was
when there were steps to climb.
But Mother Nature decided to pay a call
And slow me down a bit.
These knees are my reminders
that it's better when I sit
and write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem