In slanted sun, the elders sit,
Their hands a map of years and wit –
Wrinkled skin, a thousand lines
Tracing constellations time defines.
Within their eyes, moonlight rests,
A flicker kept safe in their chests.
Who guesses, watching silver hair,
The secret magic woven there?
They whisper softly to their tea,
Brew wisdom in each recipe,
Plant wishes in the garden’s seams
And tuck brave laughter in our dreams.
Their pockets carry mints and spells –
Tiny charms, remembered wells
Of stories pressed in whispered tone,
Reminding us: we’re not alone.
For every creak of rocking chair
Is music conjured from the air,
And every glance they toss our way
Is bright enchantment here to stay.
They stitch enchantment through the years:
Turn sorrow dust to hopeful cheers,
And teach us with their silent art
The greatest magic: open heart.
by Bakchos
