Blow, breeze, blow,
Through my hair;
For I am an old man
With old ways, and
Aches disturb my sleep.
Friends? I have none.
Comforts? One or two.
I am an old man
With old ways:
I am afraid I have lived too long.
When I was small,
I thought small,
So small that I could see
The tiny ants following others' scents
And the washed-out worms in rain puddles.
The breeze blows, and this reminds me
Of a thousand other breezes I have defied,
But this breeze I will mind,
As it pushes down the grassy slope,
Toward the vast valley, in whose shadow I shall repose.
— Gabriel Fenteany, 09/21/90 & 03/03/91
