The clouds come bearing crows
There is nothing cosy in Nature
Death ticks round like a clock,
Not for applause or thanks
The illiterate buzzard grallochs the silly dove
A pillow, spilling the beans
All that is born turns in the falling dance
Conkers roll like children,
Splitting their sides, repeating
This is my seventieth year beneath the sun
I'm a smudge that time's erasing
My appetite for power, for passion's gone
All that beavering away, for justification
Ever seeking a reason for being
Nailing myself to the earth in meditation
Perhaps it's down to the drive
Beyond dream or logic or art,
For procreation
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hey, Sheena, once past 'passion and power' what's left except art and meditation with or without belief in a supreme being? I'm sixty-nine, myself, only a year back of you but right on your heels. I go with art myself. Actually, I think you do too. Procreation is for kids, haha. Cheers, my dear. Always enjoy your work. - Bep.