Declining Years Hsu ChiCheng
Time grasps my hands
Pulling and pushing me forward.
Amongst this dense fog
Which obscures my vision.
More and more my vision is obscured……
More and more my pace is slowed……
Through the haze voices sound:
“Give him gray hairs!”
“Give him a setting sun!”
“Give him The Wintertime!”
Pulled by intense time
I lose my breath and say:
“Let me take a little rest please!
I’m so very, very tired.”
Time glares furiously at me.
“Why don’t you smear with the colour of high spirits,
Your face as vigorously as you did before？”
Then it is up to someone who can kindle a fire
Upon a frozen plain.