the cracks in your desert weathered face,
home to a thousand thoughts and memories,
from a time and a place,
long lost to the generals of time.
weak, whispered words,
whistle through your well used teeth,
and underneath the purple war paint,
a face of a modern mortal saint.
with thin grey cotton hair,
and a peramant dent in your
beloved arm chair,
a seasoned soul
do not rest those tired eyes just
yet my grand old love.
for the world still needs,
your smile.
We should value everyone but how much more an older person who has been there for us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
good poem vincent! ! ! !