Prospect of this morning fog
Devoid of any taste of life
blurring with stiff cold benumbs
Adjoining bare trees where
Few birds are fighting with cold.
By the force of his age
Beside its note of alarm
Conclusion of an old man
Shivering with Siberian wind
Dragging his morbid steps with stick
Like the brown grass of winter
His cheeks are drenched by the tears of frost.
And due course of his vital spark
Anticipating his imminent owner
Preparing for the comfort of his
Inheritance of final retreat
For the Grim Reaper is
Waiting his claiming hours.