Strophes To Myself

I'm growing old, whilst staring at the flames, And burned to ashes my desires are; I'll soon be an old, reclusive woman, Which writes her life from dusted memory. She shall spend her evenings by the chimney, With a glass of wine, warm her tired blood, Reminiscing with nostalgia at youth, Whilst frail and grey as firewood consumed. Her sleep shall be a sort of shorter death, Which sparkles love-life in fragmented dreams, And morning shall present to her again Visions new, which vanish instantly by noon. Years long shall roll—and roll—in seasons Which come with many changes that life brings, And this old woman, I myself envision: Rolling her pen on paper till the end.