behold your mother bent over with age,
who washes still your clothes over the tub,
and he whose joints now more frequent he rubs,
behold your father as your mirror gauge,
for what he is, that also you will be,
and how he leaves, you likewise will, so see
her old curved spine slight twisted won't deter,
the mighty worker from her daily chore,
of caring for the child-like man she bore,
for love, her duties she will not defer,
for still she will admonish what is right,
until she leaves your unattentive sight,
the once invincible and wise father,
now frail with muscles atrophied and weak,
persists beyond your stubborness to speak,
whose sage advice, to heed you will not bother,
oh dear, with aging horns yet still a fawn,
at whose feet will you sit when he is gone?
remember well your parents while they are,
while wrinkled trembling arms may still embrace,
to whisper in the ear and kiss your face,
before their mouths and ears will be too far,
for one day you will find yourself alone,
until your aging flesh departs from bone
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Heroic Sestet Narrative
A little wise advice to myself. I'm not the best son. Maybe if I keep reading, it will sink in.
