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I looked at myself this morning from the bronze mirror, which reflecting an old man with grey beard on sideburns.
Being a man at sixty-four, how could I not look broken and frail?
Relatives showed their compassion for an old man like me, sighing considerately.
And I just smiled a knowing smile, but who would know what I meant?
After that I demanded some wine; put aside the mirror and stroked my grey beard.
"Take seats", I told them to quietly listen what I was going to say.
If life leaves nothing for you to pursue, what are you sorry for being old?
If there is anything worth going on living, then being old means you have more time to live.
To live old means not die young; not die young means you have to debilitate someday.
To debilitate late is better than to die young, that is for sure.
Our wise ancesters said a life up to seventy years is rare.
Now I am six years shy of that goal, and I may be lucky to get there, more or less.
If I could reach that landmark, why should I still envy the longevity of that legendary hermit.
Now I would rather rejoice than lament, so let me have another goblet of wine.
|( 創作｜散文 )|