His steps are slow, his eyes astray,
His hair is white, his beard is long,
A tale of stories, a chronicle of song.
His hands are wrinkled, his fingers worn,
Holding the threads, of moments born,
He weaves the fabric, of past and present,
A tapestry rich, of life's intent.
His eyes have seen, the rise and fall,
Of empires great, and stories tall,
He's witnessed wars, and peace divine,
A silent observer, of life's design.
His voice is hoarse, his words are few,
A whisper of wisdom, for me and you,
He speaks of memories, of days gone by,
A nostalgic echo, that makes us sigh.
His back is bent, his shoulders worn,
Carrying the weight, of years unborn,
He's a keeper of secrets, a guardian of time,
A master of moments, a weaver of rhyme.
His presence is felt, in every place,
A constant reminder, of life's swift pace,
He's a motivator, to make the most,
Of every moment, no matter the cost.
He walks with scythe, through fields of gold,
Harvesting dreams, and stories untold,
He gathers moments, like leaves in fall,
And weaves them into, a chronicle's call.
His eyes are windows, to the past,
Reflecting memories, that forever last,
He's a storyteller, of life's grand tale,
A keeper of history, a weaver of gale.
He's a reminder, that time is fleeting,
A motivator, to keep on repeating,
The stories of life, the memories we hold,
A treasure trove, of moments untold.
His tied grey form, a symbol true,
Of time's relentless, and unyielding flow,
A call to action, to make the most,
Of every moment, no matter the cost.
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