How ancient you look, old man,
How like a living antique
You look today.
How much your money has held
Me in this living death
Waiting for yours.
When I come to see you, old man,
How the other folk celebrate
My compassion.
For seven years, I’ve graced your
Flaccid bag of bones
And smiled.
But today you’re looking so dead,
Old man, so dying
But so busy.
So tell me why your outline still
Declines to leave these
Sterilised halls?
Hell! This is stunningly cutting, quasi-objective, honest, sterile-seeming indeed.. and yet not.... here's TALENT. t x
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Rather chilling depiction of old to the point of fear..... Like it! HG: -) xx