An eighty-year-old child,
with cataract eyes,
like frosted windows
that still sparkle
from all the suns they’ve seen.

Wrinkles ripple across the skin
like rings of an ancient tree,
each line a story,
each fold a season survived.

We, lost in shadows of our minds,
call it depression, call it anxiety,
yet they hold storms in silence,
smiling as though pain
were just another passing guest.

Their steps may falter,
but their roots run deeper;
their laughter may sound foolish,
but it carries the weight of wisdom
we have yet to grow into.

Time has slowed their bodies,
but sharpened their souls.
We are young,
and still, somehow,
far behind them.