old age

Another winter,

And here am I,

By the side of the stove,

that a woman might dream of me,

That I might bury in her breast

A secret she would not mock;

Dreaming that in my fading years

I might spring forth as light,

And she would say:

This light is mine;

Let no woman draw near it.

Here,

By the side of the stove,

Another winter,

And here Am I,

Spinning my dreams and fearing them,

Afraid her eyes would mock

My bald, idiotic head,

My greying, aged soul,

Afraid her feet would kick

My love,

And here, by the side of the stove,

I would be lightly mocked by a woman.

Alone,

Without love, or dreams, or a woman,

And tomorrow I shall die of the cold within,

Here, by the side of the stove.