At fifty, you might think you had the jinx.
Almost everyone whose path crossed yours
has since encountered major problems:
an accident or loss or illness.
For most of us, at least,
life is now partly sad.
Youthful dreams have not come true,
but certain nightmares have.
We're survivors, nonetheless,
and we have learned
to quietly enjoy things while we can:
good food, good wine, good company,
and memories of young, absurd,
unmitigated fun.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A dinner to be memoir A dinner framed in memory A dinner walking down lanes and alleyways of memorandum A saga, a choir