"Ah, poet, the evening draws near; 
your hair is turning grey.
Do you in your lonely musing 
hear the message of the hereafter?"

"It is evening," the poet said, 
"and I am listening because some one 
may call from the village, late though it be.

"I watch if young straying hearts meet together, 
and two pairs of eager eyes beg for music 
to break their silence and speak for them.

"Who is there to weave their passionate songs, 
if I sit on the shore of life 
and contemplate death and the beyond?

"The early evening star disappears.
The glow of a funeral pyre slowly dies 
by the silent river. Jackals cry in chorus 
from the courtyard of the deserted house 
in the light of the worn-out moon.

"If some wanderer, leaving home, 
come here to watch the night 
and with bowed head listen 
to the murmur of the darkness, 
who is there to whisper 
the secrets of life into his ears 
if I, shutting my doors, should try 
to free myself from mortal bonds?

"It is a trifle that my hair is turning grey.
I am ever as young or as old as the youngest 
and the oldest of this village.
Some have smiles, sweet and simple, 
and some a sly twinkle in their eyes.
Some have tears that well up in the daylight, 
and others tears that are hidden in the gloom.
They all have need for me, 
and I have no time to brood over the afterlife.
I am of an age with each, 
what matter if my hair turns grey?"