in old age
will i still believe
in good fortune?
will i have a kind demeanor?
will i judge without doubt
everything that i see
like some black rimmed critic
at a movie store?
will i receive the worst attention
when i reminisce to
an audience of pity
with tedious tales of
puffed successes and
other's tragedies, but
never my own?
will i speak of women
with lust smothered detail
or just have a baked potato?
will i have a worthy past?
will i still write or give up?
meh, maybe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Don't give up just grow old disgracefuly good stuff Nik