SEVENTY-FOUR YEARS OLD TODAY (Rasamindrakotroka Andry Tiana)

Seventy-four winters and now he stands tall,
his brow crowned by time, the master of all.
His hair, once black with vigor and might,
has turned to snow, a crown of white.

His frame, once strong through toil and test,
was given in full, with humble zest.
His voice, once vibrant, clear and grand,
now whispers soft like distant land.

Seventy-four years old for a life so just,
a man whose service was shaped by trust.
He gave his days to love and care,
yet kept his home with equal air.

From morning's blush to evening’s end,
he strove with heart the world to mend.
He was a healer, a learned guide,
a soothing hand, a voice of pride.

How many souls by him were healed,
how many minds with truth were filled?
For teaching and healing, twin stars above,
sustain our world, like bread and love.

Seventy-four years old for this noble man,
once praised by all, now aged and wan.
Like a walking staff to the lone and frail,
he led his kin through storm and gale.

Not one for boasts or loud acclaim,
he walked with peace, untouched by fame.
With order and care, he built each part,
and turned from glitter to follow heart.

Seventy-four years old yet his fire still burns,
he travels where human need returns:
to South, to East, to Northern plain,
he gave and gave, down to his last grain.

Seventy-four years old for a father of flame,
who bore the house, the work, the name.
With mind so clear and soul so true,
he shaped his love like morning dew.

Far from the noise, he walked in peace,
with God alone his soul’s release.
And now, perhaps, he feels the hour,
to rest at last, far from the tower.

But work still stirs within his veins,
and idleness brings him no gains.
He seeks to build, to hope, to rise,
to cast his gaze beyond the skies.

For here on Earth, no toil is lost,
when soul turns heavenward, at any cost.
And step by step, in silence rare,
he nears the light, the Father's care.

RASAMINDRAKOTROKA Andry Tiana
June 29, 2025
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