The Old Man

My heart is a prisoner
of the neverending nets of sorrow.
By each of my footsteps
the flowers desiring death
make a eulogies about my legs.

The evening of life is coming,
the hair is getting grey in lonely thoughts
I hear message of the Underworld.

Sitting at the life side
I am thinking about the past, the Underworld.
Shaky touch of old hands
is breaking hoops of life
trying to loosen from the shackles of the death.

What power it must be which created me
into this gigantic mystery
as the flower bud in the midnight forest.

The life is coming to its end
to pass away in shadows of tombstones.
The life must be called off
to have a drink of sorrow
and light in funeral flame.

I love this life,
I will also love the death.