Those Old Eyes

He sits there at the window,

or on the porch when fine.

He never speaks to anyone,

just watches the world go by.

His face is grey and wrinkled

from many years of strife

and his eyes, once bright, are faded

from a long, forgotten life.

His house is dim and dreary,

no garden, trees or flowers,

and I wonder why he watches

through all those dragging hours.

His house and he are blended

in one dull camouflage,

no colour seems to penetrate,

nor light to cheer his heart.

But I always will remember

when once his eyes met mine,

and I wondered what those eyes had seen

through a wilderness of time.

Before his youth and fire died,

when he was young and free,

I wonder that this old, grey man

was once as young as me.