When laughter wears lines upon our gentle faces,
And silver softly crowns our ageing traces,
Still, your smile feels like a summer song,
Tender and patient, where old hearts belong.
Your hand in mine is a promise renewed,
A quiet dance in the evening’s subdued.
We sip our tea and steal shy glances,
Finding joy in life’s slower dances.
No need for roses or moonlit displays,
Your words still light up my ordinary days.
A brush of your thumb on my weathered skin,
Whispers of where we’ve been and yet to begin.
We cherish the hush more than youthful cries,
And see new stars in familiar skies.
Soft laughter lingers in the candle’s low gleam,
Your touch, a memory; your breath, a dream.
Years may drift like leaves on a stream,
But love at fifty is warm and supreme.
So here’s to us and this gentle grace,
Growing old, still wrapped in love’s embrace.
Praveen Gola
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