Autumn In Life
A man I see, with clothes tattered
Empty stomach, wanting eyes, grey hair scattered
Wealth he seeks not, nor desires any comfort
What he aspires, is his death, to avert.
Stood he, in the midst of my way
Giving his words of a heavenly pray
Slowly, trembling, hi heavy hands rose
With no choice but this way to pose.
'Sir'' humbly he said, 'This wrinkled face
Has once been the sign of baronial grace
And prosperity gladly dwelled at my palace
My neck unbowed standing on fame's terrace.