Her skin hangs loose, wrinkled and pale - All legacies courtesy the wane of time.
She passes her days in prayer and meditation,
Seeking pardon for God knows which crime.
Her eyes are very tired, and also almost blind.
'Tis all the same for her - the day and the night.
Her ears are shut to everyone but her own self,
And she stands there, mute and clad all in white.
I don't know what she's thinking; I wonder -
Some saddening recollection, untimely perhaps.
She's plodding down memory lane, I conjecture,
Recollecting misfortunes in momentary relapse.
Or maybe it's something wherein she was not really at fault.
Or maybe it's a natural passing, certain and cyclic in nature,
The blame and pain of which have fallen on her by default.
And now, she walks away, aided by her cane -
Her 'third leg', which helps her stand upright -
And I am left guessing the cause of her pain,
Even as she walks away, the old lady in white.
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