Wistful are the eyes of the elderly.
How long they've lived!
How little they've left.
How little they've done.
How long they've run.
Wishing not to die but one more day.
Praying to the sky and she will say,
Let me be a kid again, to run and play.
Society has run me ragged;
I'm scared that if I die too soon
I'll be forgotten by tomorrow's noon.
She cries and kneels softly
Like a feather she floats away.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 12:45 PM UTC
Wistful are the eyes of the elderly.
How long they've lived!
How little they've left.
How little they've done.
How long they've run.
Wishing not to die but one more day.
Praying to the sky and she will say,
Let me be a kid again, to run and play.
Society has run me ragged;
I'm scared that if I die too soon
I'll be forgotten by tomorrow's noon.
She cries and kneels softly
Like a feather she floats away.
Request permission to use this poem