there are seventy years of weather etched in my face,
lines that came from laughter, a few from salty tears;
some wrinkled skin from the wrath of dreaded cigarettes,
some splotches from the worn out welcoming of years.
but essentially, I look quite good for all the time,
for all the seasons spent in cold and sunny places;
a little arthritis, in my hands and also in my feet,
but of the ravages of illness, they are no traces.
I work and exercise to keep this old body into shape,
walking, hiking, biking and I bend to lift up weight;
I stretch and and wave the limbs to keep me limber,
and I love the other sex, the one I call my mate.
I will not let the age of time to call my tune,
I will not surrender to inertia, no matter what I do;
It's in the woods and the hills that I'll be found,
I do not want to sit around and slowly stew.
there's a road map, if you could read my sun-burned face,
there's an atlas to scan and recollection of many trips;
the best source of it all, the horse's mouth so to speak,
comes from the telling of the tales, from off my lips.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How true! The lines on a person's face tell as many stories as his words, and life never stops with age - we all keep on learning something new everyday. I like this poem very much, it spoke so much of me too!