Salíme al campo; vi que el sol bebía
los arroyos del yelo desatados,
y del monte quejosos los ganados,
que con sombras hurtó su luz al día.

Entré en mi casa; vi que, amancillada,
de anciana habitación era despojos;
mi báculo, más corvo y menos fuerte.

Vencida de la edad sentí mi espada,
y no hallé cosa en que poner los ojos
que no fuese recuerdo de la muerte.

I went out to the fields; I saw the sun
drink up the brooks now freed from winter's ice,
and cattle of the mountain grumbling,
which with its shadows stole from day the light.

I went into my house; I saw that, stained,
it was just rubble of an ancient room;
my walking stick, more bowed and bearing less.

I saw my sword was overcome with age,
and nothing left on which to fix my glance
that was not a reminder now of death.

                     (©Alix Ingber, 1995)