| Cypresses loom. With gravel under feet,
Trudging ninety years, your satchel hangs from threads.
You tear your grey beard; you lust for a bed,
When at dawn you sucked your mother’s teat.
Now at twilight your step grinds in the peat,
While the Bora wind makes your face burn red,
As past appointments tear your heart to shreds,
And past lovers inflame that worn-out bit of meat.
Dusk is here, you’ve dragged yourself this far.
At the end of worlds a cabin appears.
Stars light up and Taurus roars,
So knock and wipe away your tears.
The door opens; the man in black is there--
Now rest. You’ve run out all your years.