O daughter of a star-struck continent,
The tempting tyrannies of yesteryear
Impinge like ancient choruses of fear
Upon our sleepless dreams. Voices lament
The swift decline of strength, lost merriment,
Old ecstasies gone mute and joys turned drear;
We now hold cheap what once we held as dear
And crave what leads to our own detriment.
Our temporary consolations pall
And vanish like the snows of April first,
Leaving the trash and traffic of the city,
Emblems of disgrace, visible to all
Till darkness hide what the harsh light has cursed
And night conceal us in her cloak of pity.
Lament
I was nineteen in 1988;
Before that, I was younger, I suppose.
And now I'm middle-aged, a sorry state;
The bloom, to coin a phrase, has left the rose.
The muse, like lovely weather, comes and goes;
But mostly I drink, eat, read, sleep, complain:
And what the future holds, nobody knows --
One thing's for sure: I won't be young again.
And what is left for me to celebrate?
The cerebellum shrinks, the belly grows.
(Try running windsprints when you're overweight,
When years of health are drawing to a close.)
The heavy limbs that trudge through winter snows,
The graying hair that's soaked by summer rain,
The litany of ills and psychic woes --
One thing's for sure: I won't be young again.
The blunted wit that fails me in debate,
The memory recalling pangs and throes,
The mind conspires to humiliate
By what it blots out and by what it shows:
The weakening soul that seeks a sweet repose
Suffers unceasing and unhallowed pain
Dealt by those thoughts which are its fiercest foes --
One thing's for sure: I won't be young again.
O holy Virgin, blest mystical Rose,
Through your most clement prayers may I regain
Some strength, some hope; for time's great river flows,
And one thing's sure: I won't be young again.