Old

 

Old

On an old rug,
The shapes of horses and battles lay deformed.
A horse with two heads is floating around my floor,
Boasting its handsome mane.
The candle threatens to burn fiercely,
And the room is the colour of a lion's back.
The battles have disappeared,
The world has disappeared.

I am already in my hermitage.
There is nothing of the old fool left.
My eyes are thirsty for the gurgling waters of visions,
Or at least for lucid dreams.

I hear a knock.
I hope it is death, who I am not afraid to meet,
But it is only my knees.

On an old rug,
The shapes of horses and battles come alive.
A triumphant spirit smokes from the candle,
Troubling me slightly.
My eyes dart questions here and there,
My face raises itself to examine the false vision,
But even my madness has failed me.
I sit back uneasily, remembering my predicament.
I am old.