Back to that place he walks to gaze upon the opening buds
Of Laurel’s rose whose nods in the wind to him talks
With words that no longer are meant for his aged ears.
Filling with salt-less tears, he feels himself stronger
Than this world has left him— brittle yet not enough
To break— and so arises, bitter to youth’s new flower,
Mustering all his power descends, rejects all guises
Of decline heaved upon his soul by the spinning
Rage which clips every wing born to flight ‘low the sun,
Amongst trees forbidden to those whose time has passed.
Fragrance as a green sprite makes drunk this now wasted
Man with memories tasted once upon a delight,
Imbibed by greyish thoughts dazzled in flowers’ pink
He cups his hands and drinks flowing sap in deep draughts
‘Til dark eyes, senescent seal, for youth’s poison drank.