The old are like poets—famous, covered in such light
We cannot see them, only their fame.
They ask, “how old?” You hear the old person’s name.
But unseen the dream of that golden mind.
They dream. The world surrenders. Old age is kind.
Strong and busy in the midst of life
We pity the old, but the old are glad.
They dream somewhere. It is we, the young, who are sad.
Uncertainty hangs over the expression of love.
The young exaggerate. They face the pitiless stars above.
“You’ll be old, too,” the distance of the stars say.
The poet disagreed, dreaming a short distance away.