Classic Poem

The two of us both in old age now,
I ask myself what it means to be old.
Eyes bleary, evenings you're the first to bed;
hair a bother, mornings you leave it uncombed.
Sometimes you go out, a stick to prop you;
sometimes, gate shut, you stay indoors the whole day.
Neglecting to look into the newly polished mirror,
no longer reading books if the characters are too small,
your thoughts dwelling more and more on old friends,
your activities far removed from those of the young,
only idle chatter rouses your interest —
when we meet, we still have lots of that, don't we!