PSALM

I looked upon my native country's walls,
if once they were strong, now they were decayed,
fatigued by time's inevitable race,
by which their former valor now must fade.

I went out to the fields; I saw the sun
drink up the brooks now freed from winter's ice,
and cattle of the mountain grumbling,
which with its shadows stole from day the light.

I went into my house; I saw that, stained,
it was just rubble of an ancient room;
my walking stick, more bowed and bearing less.

I saw my sword was overcome with age,
and nothing left on which to fix my glance
that was not a reminder now of death.