I saw someone a week ago, In the streets on my way back home..
Her wrinkled skin burnt by the Sun Her attire frayed and patched with dust An empty oil can of crumpled tin A humble sum peeks shyly from within Her hand stretched, a cup formed from her palms It shakes too furiously to beg for alms She speaks a language alien to me Yet her eyes tell me a universal story A tale of a debt that was never paid Kindness was dealt a hand of apathy instead And the care with which a seedling grows Was not returned as winter crept close Because fall came and went, and the old leaves are spent Shed across the city streets, with none to speak for the dead
Like the world around me I know not why I should care Her face is that of a stranger to me Yet I keep waking up on account of these dreams A similar picture, a similar scene And at the heart of it The face is yours, Granny.
Do not neglect the old. As you wouldn't be neglected as the young. The golden rule.