Classic Poem

The age of seventy is gone,
and now four springtimes more;
I know inside that I no longer
have my former spirit.
Guests — I invite men of my age
since I can talk to them;
poems — afraid of senility,
I work even harder on them.
My books and paintings —
I never tire
of putting them in order;
my pavilions and terraces —
I renovate them, have them all rebuilt.
It's like chess pieces on a board,
the game drawn to a close:
you gather them and get things ready
for the next man's game.