His stick as gnarled as his hand,
by Kwai Chee Low
he grasped tightly, almost at the hill top.
A soft breeze raised the edge of his shirt,
he picked up from the alley days ago.
Slowly golden rays of the rising sun
banished the shadows of the night.
Birds chirping throatily, flew from the trees
towards the valley below.
He had enjoyed the thrill of youth,
and the joy of falling in love.
Now at the twilight of his years,
all are gone, except the glory of sunrise,
the warm glow of sunset,
and the nightly mantle of shimmering stars.