My youth was a vast portico
with all the splendor of an army
of moths going up in flames;
chandeliers in an enchanted glade.
Already dusk has come and I must
till these grounds again, I am
weak of limbs and no flower
blooms in my garden.
I see the shadows of what
awaits me. No illustrious tombstones,
a muffled drum, a lone candle at
the mercy of the breeze, a flower forgotten
in the dust -- unnoticed.
