This is no season
for me an old man
to be a dream-chaser
what has gone before
is dust and debris now
there's nothing beyond-

the fence that encloses me
within its bound
mocks me relentlessly
if I should ever wander
to the green pastures
of the long ago

it shows no sympathy
it judges harshly
it doesn't mince its words:
'  let your fancy go to sleep
  unforgiving is memory
  let it rest and nothing should you keep

  you had the chance then
for your every pick
the sunshine of time
has sunk into the abyss
of night.  Your steps
you won't be able to retrace
don't you feel
the heaviness of your heart
your fading voice
your faltering feet
and the fatigue of love
and the shying-away of beauty?'

This is the season
of remorse
of regret
of pain
the cessation
of passion
when what's left
is but dreams broken
and forgotten

the last melancholic notes
of a once proud and bold love-song.