The Old Man

He's spreading his poor dreams

On the chessboard of time

Ancient shells on the shore

Do not echo any more

He lugs around the years without a break.

Always believing at the right time

Chasing the same dreams

assiduously, blindly

In his brief youth

He believed for a moment

Before his dreams die

That it was the right time

To work hard when the sun rises

And to reach his apartment

And then when the moon rises

To join his rascal

Every morning he gets up

With the same feeling

That time is a sword

Who scalps his good times

Before the hourglass is finished

One of these mornings however

The valiant old man is dying

Without ever having a good time