Oldness

If i don't work i do not exist

If i don't serve for production i am dead even being alive

Isn't this way you reason about it ?

There is still life in the yellowish pictures

I see, I speak, I hear, I think

I am flesh and blood, pulsating blood

I also have sentiments even in oldness

The pain of waiting and trying to be usefull

and nobody pays attention

I feel like a yellowish picture

I don't want feeling of pity for me

I don't need this kind of charity

Lined hands, tremulous, prophetic hands

disturb and seem to suffer from a pest without a cure

Oldness is a child that returns and worries

Friends go away, curtain comes down

The play is out of sight

Forgotten sitting in the room corner

Asleep scenery of a far off life

Remembrance of mine that doesn't interest nobody

My greatest mistake was to believe that my garden wouldn't come