When your limbs feel weak
And feeble like you had foams
In lieu of bones.
And your tired years tell in your gait.
You hobble and wobble
Like a wounded tiger
After a fierce battle
A battle well fought
But conquered by age
And a walking stick
as a squire.
You remember the
Congenial nature of their faces
And you smile with teary eyes
But a jocund company,
They will provide
Even as ageing scribbles
On your forehead
Its signature of wrinkles
They will make ageing
Beautiful.
Without them, a loner stares
Wishfully and wistfully
On their aged picture
With young images therein
And they are called friends.
@harrywill