Poem by George Souris
OLD AGE
White hair on the head
is thought a bad omen
as if the Fate’s curse
insults my old age
Anywhere I set my foot
everywhere I walk
Hades surely follows
yet slowly enough.
Dogs that encircle
this decaying body,
you too have had your bread
my foe and friend both underline
and so I run, a ghost at night
away from the active world
and each grave that I find open
seems like it opens for me.
Libros Libertad 