Classic Poem

I've given up poetry — I have no new manuscripts.
I've stopped playing the lute — it's hidden in its box.
Mushrooms are growing in the mortar
where I used to pound herbs.
Lichens have covered the spade which once dug flower-beds.
The pathway is full of puddles — I'm too lazy to sweep them away.
The garden is overgrown — I'm too tired to pull out the weeds.
And I'm fearful of questions about my past life:
before people have even opened their mouths,
I start to feel ashamed.