At thirty, you’re not done for, but your breath is
already flagging!
At forty, you’re not done for either, but your
body’s preparing for it,
Ahead of time!
At twenty I never got tired of anything.
At sixty, it is called lameness —
At sixty-eight, the strong sun knocks you out, and
the life of the body feels as if it is in deep water—
At the end of the day, the bed is sweet; one is
content.
Now I wait quietly without really knowing why…
When you get old, your life gets corrugated like a
grooved tin-roof, fetish in some areas, but it’s just worn-out machinery at
work.
You’re like an old barrel, separated by a sort of
path covered by new tiles.
Now the fatigue, the ache in the back, the loss of
stamina from inaction, and all signs of old age.
Work is a curse, it precedes death.
No way to chase away those gloomy thoughts!
No: 5095/2-28-2016
