The young serve passion, the old bow to wisdom;
The young go for fashion, the old opt for comfort;
The young seek adventure, the old hope for peace;
The young pursue beauty, the old seek the truth;
The young smell victory, the old face defeat;
The young feel immortal, the old approach death.
Is this then the journey of poet to sage?
How briefly the hyacinth blooms, then fades.
Oh mother, what age am I? Mother,
What age?


Todos Santos, August 1994