The skin grows thin like paper,
a landscape of years
folded into wrinkles
where silence lives.

Eyes look further
than the present reaches,
see shadows of voices,
walk paths
the feet have already forgotten.

But beneath the weight of time
something new begins to grow-
a soft sprout in the dust,
a whisper of light
in the room of night.

Old age is not an ending,
but a breath that sinks deeper,
a cycle
in which letting go
is the first step
toward beginning again.