When the sword of sixty comes nigh his head br give a man no wine, for he is drunk with years. br Age claps a stick in my bridle-hand: br substance spent, health broken, br forgotten the skill to swerve aside from the joust br with the spearhead grazing my eyelashes. br br The sentinel perched on the hill top br cannot see the countless army he used to see there: br the black summit's deep in snow br and its lord himself sinning against the army. br He was proud of his two swift couriers: br lo! sixty ruffians have put them in chains. br br The singer is weary of his broken voice, br one drone for the bulbul alike and the lion's grousing. br br Alas for flowery, musky sappy thirty br and the sharp Persian sword! br The pheasant strutting about the briar, br pomegranate-blossom and cypress sprig! br Since I raised my glass to fifty-eight br I have toasted only the bier and the burial-ground. br br I ask the just Creator br so much refuge from Time br that a tale of mine may remain in the world br from this famous book of the ancients br and they who speak of such matters weighing their words br think of that only when they think of me.