Time eats them.
Moulds them. Wrinkles them.
Misshapens them. Pities them.
Just like a tree holding its age in the form of the rings in its bark,
the old people are radiating their old age in their experiences.
A world which considers old people as merely a burden.
They, who are the rich repositories of un-distorted history, have fallen, only to never rise again.
Once lush green and full of life,
nourished by its thick skinned bark,
and jostled by wind,
from above and underneath,
this very green leaf too,
had to fall on the ground;
time dries it, wrinkles it,
misshapens it, and finally,
it crumbles, like shards of glass.
Over time, somewhere else or perhaps
on this very same tree, a new green leaf
will be born.
Ozymandias by P B Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”