Have I so changed as I grow old?
Where once the music played
within the walls of sunlit space,
I now prefer the shade.
Beneath my silent tears of grief,
among the darkened trees,
I heed a midnight symphony
that whispers on the breeze.
The sound is quietly heard within,
I hearken to the muse,
the rhapsody of poetry,
a lyric interlude.
Beyond the dawning pastel glow,
the orchestra of time,
with harmony and memory,
plays images and rhyme.
And yet I know the music ends,
the silence was foretold,
I sense it still, though you may not,
where shadows are consoled.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So sensititive and unfortunately so true in life.
Sometimes my only solace is poetry. Not so much what I read as what I write.