crooked and deformed,
just seen too much,
life-beaten,
tries to serve as well,
as in the good old days,
the golden years of it,
yet it fails so strong,
fingers like dry branches,
nerves are full of pain,
but never wait for end,
the sparkle small
of vital signs
keeps the mechanics working,
just every grasp on air
makes worthy
the attempt to stay,
it never ends until the end,
the work of old man's hand...
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