Look at them, there they are. They are the old. They occupy the park banks. They look for sunny corners. They arrive, one by one. With its caps, with its canes. They sit and talk. They observe the pigeons and the children who play. Remember. Now they have more memories than future. They tell their life, their stories, they point out the change of the landscape. This city was another, this city was not so. They, the old ones, made her what she is today. They, with their work, raised our world: they, in the streets, in the factories, in the houses. No one seems to thank him. They were also young. No one seems to remember.
There come the old ones. In mid -morning, they occupy the bar table. They play cards, dominoes. They ask for a glass of wine. Only one, not very full: doctors, which entertain recipe and pills. The old people talk about their ailments as if they were not his. Laugh, laugh a lot, teach their mouths without teeth. They are funny to hear that they are called "elderly." They don't know much about euphemisms, but they do know what they are. They're Old. They end the game. They return home. On the way, they will buy the bread. They will eat at home, alone.
School path van, in its path, the old. Grandparents and grandmothers leading their grandchildren, because their parents (the children of the old) cannot. They have a hard time walking to the rhythm of the children, and that is why they are asked not to get away and do their hand. And the children smile, grab their grandparents' hand and walk with them and tell them their adventures and dreams. And the old smile, because they know they are still necessary.
They are our fathers and mothers, our grandparents and grandmothers. They are our blood, our character, our history. They are what we have been, what we are, what we will be. They are the old. Our old. All our love and thanks for them.
