Old Age

If now thou seest me a wreck, worn out and minished of sight, and all my limbs without strength to bear my body along,
And I am deaf to the calls of love and lightness of youth, and follow wisdom in meekness, my steps easy to guide —
Time was I went every night, hair combed, to sellers of wine, and squandered lightly my wealth, compliant, easy of mood.
Yea, once I played, and enjoyed the sweetest flavor of youth, my wine the first of the grape, mingled with purest of rain —
Wine bought from one with a twang in his speech, and rings in his ears, a belt girt round him: he brought it forth for good silver coin.
A boy deals it to our guests, girt up, two pearls in his ears, his fingers ruddy, as though stained deep with mulberry juice,
And women white like the moon or statues stately to see, that softly carry around great cups filled full with the wine —
White women, dainty, that shoot the hearts of men with their eyes, fair as a nest full of ostrich eggs betwixt rock and sand.
Kind words they speak, and their limbs are soft and smooth to the touch, their faces bright, and their hearts to lovers gentle and mild.
Low speech they murmur, in tones that bear no secrets abroad: they gain their ends without toil, and need no shouting to win.
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Al-Aswad, son of Ya'fur
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