Dan Enache Poet Free verse

Old Age youth hidden in wrinkles

Old Age – youth hidden in wrinkles,
wrinkles – maps of rivers that never dried,  
bones – roots of oak trees growing toward heaven,  
skin – parchment on which infinity writes with faint light.

Old age – fire that burns slowly and never goes out,  
living ash from which rises every morning  
a new bird, with wings made of the same burned blood.

Old age – clock stopped at the exact hour of birth,  
the same moment stretched over decades,  
until time itself recognizes defeat  
and sits obediently in the corner of the room, like an old dog.

Old age – the last fruit of the tree,  
the sweetest, the heaviest, the one containing all the harvests before,  
you bite into it and the taste of the first spring flows into your mouth  
and of the last autumn at the same time.

Old age – silence that knows all words,  
smile that no longer needs to say anything,  
gaze that has seen so many departures  
that arrival has become an unimportant detail.

Old age – death playing at life,  
life pretending to die so it can be reborn more alive,  
I who collapse into myself  
and rise each time higher than I was.

Old age – continuous rebirth,  
ash that never cools,  
flame born from its own cinder  
and says, with my youngest voice:

I grew old to learn never to die.

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