The Old Man and His Longing for Youth

One night in our youth, with every good thing at hand, a group of us young men sat together. Singing like nightingales, our faces fresh as flowers, filling the street with laughter and playful noise. An old man who had seen the world sat apart from us; the turning sky had turned his once dark hair to daylight white. His mouth was shut tight, silent as a hazelnut; not like us, whose lips split open with laughter like pistachios. One of the young men went over and said, 'Old man, why sit here aching in your corner of regret? Lift your head out of the collar of your grief; come, stroll happily among us young folk.' The old man raised his head from his silence; look at the answer he gave, so full of an old man's wisdom. 'When the morning breeze blows over the garden, it is the young tree that is fit to sway and dance. A young shoot sways while it is green and fresh; once it yellows, it just snaps and breaks. In spring the willow puts out fragrant blossoms, but a dense old tree only sheds its dry leaves. It does not suit me to prance with the young, for the dawn of old age has already broken on my face. A wild hawk holds me in its grip, and moment by moment it tears at the thread of my life. It is your turn now to sit at this feast, for we have washed our hands of such pleasures. Once the dust of age has settled on your head, do not expect the joys of youth again. Snow has fallen on my raven black feathers; I can no longer roam the garden like a nightingale. Let the beautiful peacock show off its splendor; what can you want from a hawk whose wings are plucked bare? My grain has already been reaped and stored away; for you the new grass is only just sprouting. The freshness of my garden is gone; who ties a bouquet from flowers that have withered? My son, my life now leans on a cane; to lean on life any longer would be a mistake. Leaping up on his feet suits only the young; old men must push themselves up with their hands.' Look at my rosy cheeks, once pure gold; they sank away, like the sun when it turns yellow and sets. Reckless craving is not so ugly in an unripe child as it is in a raw, foolish old man. I ought to weep like a child out of shame for my sins, not to live like a child. Luqman said it well: not living at all is better than living for years in error. To keep the shop shut from the very morning is better than losing both profit and capital. By the time a young man carries his dark hair toward the light, the poor old man has carried his white hair to the grave.