An old tale

They chit-chat around me;

Believe that it is company, think that I cannot follow

because of the lines they see;

Surely I do not know

of modern seas, of modern lives,

I am close to the last and slow;

But were they to look into my eyes,

they would see me run under the rain and in the snow;

Hold, in the night, endless talks,

mirthful dances to the morrow;

They would know the lies, the truths, the games and the tricks,

the tears and the laughs, the babbles, and the blow

of age. I used to; now I remember. Looking in the mirror is a face I do not recognize

stroked by hands I do not know;

I do not run for it hurts, I do not travel for it costs and tires;

Polite, I do not engage unless pitifully asked; it is to show

respect to let the ancient talk; it is the order of things to have days boring me,

like a million feathers – or so they told me.

Magazine cover 1932, source: Litlnemo, flickr
Magazine cover 1932, source: Litlnemo, flickr
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