His skin is like
That of an over ripe peach,
His hat is faded,
Its colour is like that of sand on the beach.

His teeth have fallen,
Little of his once-styish hair remains.
The feet that moved forward with confidence,
Have now become lame.

The old man, my uncle,
Has little to live, little to share;
He has a house and his own chair,
And a few people who care.

He still is happy,
Like a flying bird, before it is shot.
The bird knows not about its future,
But the old man knows a lot.

He has learnt to look for the rising moon,
And not for the falling stars.
He knows that he shall enjoy up to his very end.
He has forgotten his scars.

He walks like before, though not that far.