Everyone becomes a child when
Situations hold clubs.
This way elders bury their tears
In frequent sighs,
To them, words do not
Express the matters of the heart
For it is an art, that can only be painted.
Brush splattered expression on
Wizening faces.
Their face is a map, for tracing history
Through hills and valleys.
How they swallowed secrets that'll
Break a village to churn out proverbs—
Proven-herbs that mends dispute.
Proven-herbs that soothes a broken heart
Most die heroes, but in little hearts
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