With every heavy, labored step,Tap, tap, tapThe familiar, rhythmic sound of a stickThe footsteps of a father,Who taught the true meaning of the aesthetics of slowness.A son, grumbling that the pace is too slow,Takes hold of his father’s small, rough hand and pulls him along.The father, having reached the venerable age of a hundred1), says:“Oh, it’s killing me! I can’t move another inch.Stop pulling my hand, let’s just sit a while before we go.”The son, feeling restless, replies:“Father, It’s just a few more steps. Just a little further……”But the father has already sunk down onto a bench.His two hands lean upon his stick,Head bowed, catching his ragged breath.“When I can’t even move my own body as I wish, living long is no blessing.I should leave this world soon.”How much longer can I touch my father’s hand?Softly,My eyes begin to burn with tears.With every heavy, labored step,Tap, tap, tapThe familiar, rhythmic sound of a stick
1) Age of a Hundred : It refers to the age of one hundred, or a centenarian who has reached that venerable age.