Slow sift the sands of Time; the yellowed leaves
Go drifting down an old and bitter wind;
Across the frozen moors the hedges stand
In tattered garments that the frost have thinned.
A thousand phantoms pluck my ragged sleeve,
Wan ghosts of souls long into darkness thrust.
Their pale lips tell lost dreams I thought mine own,
And old sick longings smite my heart to dust.
I may not even dream of jeweled dawns,
Nor sing with lips that have forgot to laugh.
I fling aside the cloak of Youth and limp
A withered man upon a broken staff..
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Nochmal ein Gedicht von Robert E. Howard, Autor von Conan und Solomon Kane. Ich werde in den kommenden Wochen jeden Dienstag eines veröffentlichen - sie sind inzwischen alle public domain.
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