The Autumn of Our Life
Volcanic ashes are resting for millions of years,
Scattered on our dry fields;
Should migrant birds land there for a moment,
They would take-off immediately
As if fleeing from distress.
Is it any wonder?
Since these are the charred fields of our childhood,
Bisected by dry footpaths
From which dust rose upon our adulthood
While we gathered and piled up heaps of straw
And lit them to warm up our aging selves -
Right now, in the autumn of our life,
As we move towards the eternal winter night
Scattered on our dry fields;
Should migrant birds land there for a moment,
They would take-off immediately
As if fleeing from distress.
Is it any wonder?
Since these are the charred fields of our childhood,
Bisected by dry footpaths
From which dust rose upon our adulthood
While we gathered and piled up heaps of straw
And lit them to warm up our aging selves -
Right now, in the autumn of our life,
As we move towards the eternal winter night
Written by Moshe D. Shafrir-Stillman