There are parables in the scars
the tragedies of age spelled out
in swollen joints and knotted sinews.
There are poems in the faces of old people,
sonnets on experience aand love of life,
or elegies to orphaned hopes and dreams.
There are lyrics in blank verse
and rhyming couplets, metaphor
that defies mere words proclaiming
the truth of personalities imprisoned in
a skin more translucent than spring water.
There is music in the voices of old people,
jigs and reels of childhood memory,
laments in talk of lost loved ones
or friends already claimed by time.
There are hymns of hope
for children yet unborn and symphonies
to heroes who fought to bring harmony
to the discord of the world.
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