O mailman,
What is your desire of me?
I am far removed from the world,
Surely you are mistaken,
For the earth holds nothing new
For this outcast.
What was,
Still is, as it was before.
It dreams,
It buries,
And tries to regain.
People still have their festivals,
And mourning connects one festival with the next.
Their eyes dig in the graveyard of their minds
Looking for some new glory
To quiet some new hunger.
China still has its wall,
A legend once effaced brought back by time.
The earth still has its Sisyphus,
And a rock that does not know
It desires.

O mailman,
surely you are mistaken,
For there is nothing new ...
Return along the path whence you came,
The path that so often brings you.
What is your desire of me?

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.
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.
Without love, or dreams, or a woman,
And tomorrow I shall die of the cold within,
Here, by the side of the stove.

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