My thoughts this evening are
As tangled as my wind-blown hair.
The years, like thieves, have fallen upon me:
Like a lover, gray age remembers me now,
I, who have not thought of her even once;

I’m old and fat and stooped with worry
But my ignorant heart knows it not.
The winds of spring still blow
Though spring is already long gone;

After all the years, by way of pretext,
I still find means to come, when asked:
To fix a broken bulb, to run an errand,
To check up on you, when you are ill;
But you know, like each time in the past,
It was really to see you once again.

Perhaps there are no boundaries
To yearnings, to love, and to foolishness;

I have dreams of such exotic shades,
Time has not dimmed them a bit:
But I do not want to be that lonely man
Who had lovely dreams once,
But kept them stored in a glass case,
Untested by the winds and brown earth;

I want to burn and fail and taste
Such magnificent, spectacular failures,
I want to have lived at least once
Before my living days were over.

With my arms, perhaps, I cannot touch the sky.
But I want to be the foolish one,
Who reached out,
Knowing all this, nonetheless.