when is see that old man,
whose face is hardened by the changes of the seasons
by the cruelty of time,
his skin is dark brown, thick as a pachyderm
now loose, and bones curving
like a question mark of
existentialism,
he must have been tough, as i bring him back to the past of his youth,
riding on a black horse, carrying his scimitar
conquering tyrants
worshiping God and wooing his woman
making love
gently with the softness of her being
and i go back
on that wrinkled face, bowing to his destiny,
surrendering
calmly to the embrace of death
his final friend....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem