Old Age

An old man is just a worthless item,
A ragged suit upon a skeleton, worthless
Soul applauds its body and dances, and louder hum
For every rag in its fatal dress.

Dust on an old man's skin,
In all the dust on the arid roses depart,
Dust in the air hanging,
Engrave the place where tales part.

Knit a ring around him vicious,
And close the eyes with unknown fear,
For him on sweet dreams hath nosh,
And inebriated the milk ready to tear.

Soul said ‘I chase for butterflies
Those snooze among the treats:
But life treats them into chicken-picks,
And throw them in the streets.

Don't sell me unto man; he cried,
‘I glide on wild seas;
And that's the way I get my bread-
A trifle, but the world, please.

Dances between life and death,
No message has given before or after,
Buffalo rider, snaps the entire bough,
Nobody knows, where takes the rider.

All cries, death spare neither man nor god,
Nasty for man but fun for divinity,
Waste not your tears on a sod,
Thank God he is dead, meeting eternity.