Deep, still waters

serene, calm

form a perfect reflection.

Form an image

of an old, old man,

sitting silently

upon a rock, with misty breath

and withered arms

leaning heavily on a stick,

a broken stick.

Men pass behind.

No glance in his direction,

no sympathy.

An old, old man sits on a rock,

quietly,

his mouth turned downwards by lines of age

creasing his face.

His tattered clothes, they fly in the wind,

stick-like legs, they tremble and quiver.

Yet no one sees,

no one bothers.

The still lake, it yet looks on

and forms an image

of an old, old man,

sitting silently upon a rock.