Classic Poem

A dream, so swift, now someone a half century old;
private thoughts, endless, darkly pain my heart.
The moon wanes, the moon waxes, from full to new;
flowers fall, flowers open, in autumn, again in spring.
Paintings I once did seem to be by a different hand;
books I once read feel new as I read them again.
I only hope to remain more or less trouble-free,
now with my parent in his room, old and ill.