The wrinkled face,the reckoned pace
The shivery hands on the beads
Look the same for the gentleman with his stick
Fifty years by now I believe.
Everyday the same dusky morning
At the verandah with the tumbler of tea
Chatting away the lives of their big babies
Who dial the digits twice or thrice?
Yet each tring ring makes the mouths a crescent moon.
A few strands of grey, he perceives as locks of silver
The man who without stumbling nor can walk nor talk
Remains for her an armed soldier who has her heart safe.
Two hearts faithful and true
A real man and wife to behold
Who speak with the minds and see through the hearts
Although their vision and words are fading away
The beauty has been uplifted to serenity
At the twilight of their lives.
Wsidom has taught them well
The years they lived together be years of wine
They cherish it now, vintage.