My days must yet go on, an aimless drifting.
The night's relentless pall has been unfurled,
Nor from life's casket soon to get a lifting.
A dotard, I reside here with the women
As did attend her, but for them no savor
Impels me to dispel the evil omen
Nor draw the curtain back. Life loses flavor.
The brazier might be stirred, but dying embers
Revive not spirit, ash begetting ash,
As is the way of things: the heart remembers,
But like the locust's shell life fleets to trash.
Though I was born to a possessing station
Wanting for nothing, I perhaps was meant
To note—and know through grievous contemplation—
How vain and insubstantial life is spent.
We vowed one thousand years, and she has left me,
An undue portion bitter tears she shed,
As now, vitality of hope bereft me,
I would that it were me she mourned instead.