The old man and the Sun.
Translated by: Danielle Zimmerman
The old tree rustled in the wind,
the wrinkles in the bark imitated that of the old man.
He used to stand in the shade—leaning on the tree
…the thick tree, with the sad bent down leaves,
hiding from the sun.
He would come during sunsets—his eyes scrunched and wrinkled
wrinkled with age, with a sad tale of his life.
As would I,
passing, watching, observing…
The sun would hit his dusty old shoes first
nibbling at his toes
climbing higher, as though
attaching itself to his body like a leach.
Submerging his entire entity
drowning him in casts of orange—yellow—pink
As I watched from afar
The story of his life unraveled
the sad ness that created his many wrinkles unfolded.
The sun started to capture the whole body
almost causing the wrinkles of the old man
to vanish into the tree.
Like a rock, slowly corroding away,
He began to surrender himself
Into the silence of nothingness
But the colors of the world.
The sun, biting him, consuming him,
With great love and comfort—put him to sleep
dissolving him into the sunset
melting like burning plastic.
And as I observed, the only remains left of the old man
were the soft wrinkles of the tree.
He was born off into the sun’s last rays,
like so many other invisible things of the world.