They, they--the young-
they whisper behind my back
it's all written in their faces
(the young never think they would ever grow old)
' Look at that old man in the corner
at the end of his days....'

Hardly do they know
it's but my beginning
my glorious and sublime beginning
(time has its duty performed
with its too impatient brush
painting rough wrinkles and lines
all over my sunken and pallid face

yet it can't unseat me
here I am
still standing
on firm and unshakeable ground
never stronger
never more durable
never so resolute
never so sure
and secure
as I'm now
at the road's divide
where I walk in freedom
alone
on my own
heaving not a single sigh
nor would you ever hear
my moan

ah, it's the depth of winter
(I'm used to its harshness
and its frost doesn't bite anymore)
let the snow-flakes fall
one by one
in their selected time
each taking its turn
as a note in a rapturous song
follows another in sequence
in perfect rhythm and rhyme-
there is a sweet melody
in every motion of nature
only if one would lend one's ears
to the majesty of its music)

as I watch
from my worn-out curtain
I've time --- more than ever before
to count them
as they gently drop
on the silent garden floor

(am I a child again
in my purest innocence?)

how faithful, steadfast and robust has that tree
in the garden stood over so many years
(under its shade I happily rested as a child)
despite the wildest winds and storms
and the harshest winter
its branches still hold out
though more bristle and weaker-
thousands upon thousands of leaves
have grown old and now scatter
all around the last few drooping flowers

yet I know
come next winter
it will still greet me
as we are not
at the end of days

every moment
every season
is just
a new beginning.