Wrinkled hands, quavering voice, shaky legs, bent frame.
No shoulders to lean upon; only support, a wooden cane.

Numerous people around, but still a lonely shield.
A garden full of weeds, the rest an empty field.

A lot of tales to tell, but grandchildren unseen.
Experiences to share, through all that they have been.

Sermons or galimatias, they have no one to listen.
No more the old way; their life, now in God's submission.

A handful of sweet moments, but a sack of painful memories.
Their life weapons, made and stored in these old age 'armories'.

Rightly named these places, 'Homes of the Old Age'.
Different characters with their acts, sharing a common stage.

Forgotten is their love, no one could better preach.
Forgotten is their strife, that never turned to speech.

Forgotten is their care, that never had a measuring tape.
Forgotten are their battles against their children's pains to escape.

They ask for nothing else, just be returned what they gave.
Neither to be a master, nor someone to enslave.

Material possessions mean nothing to these poor souls.
A true minute of their loved ones is for what their weak heart bawls.

A hope to see them back, before it's time to leave.
Final words stuck in throat, waiting to be relieved.

Realisation occurs when the thing is lost.
People who abandoned it are the ones who cry the most.

Their broken spirits need to be lifted up again.
It's not just wooden stick they can call as their only cane.