Here I sit, in a dry cellar
No, you would not call it home,
Counting the grey hair, no longer serves to be an entertainment
Half deaf, half blind, but not in moan.
From the window in here
I see a couple passing by,
Incapable of evoking any memories in this breeze
These days they are not really shy.
The prime is over
They have other matters to discuss,
Yes, yes I am respected, though quite unable to understand them
What good would be a fuss?
Three things have I learnt
Tolerance towards one and all,
Acceptance has been my forte in all I’ve done or do
And the doctrine of silence, to crown it all.
To me it looks all grey
Where once red reigned,
Solitude seems best company
Now that the youth is drained.
I fear nothing now
Kind, they just want me to rest,
And that is what most befits me
By them it is stressed.
By age it is stressed
By nature it is stressed
And by my soul too, nonetheless.