I did not walk toward old age –
old age came to me.
I turned my face away,
but it smiled at me.

I left no footprints on the ground,
yet it came asking for me,
leaned against the wall
of my street.

I gave no greeting,
sent no message –
still it entered my house
and sat upon my steps.

I ignored it, turned aside,
yet it made itself at home –
and softly befriended
the hair upon my head.

First it let my hair fall like rain,
then it scattered snow
upon my crown.

It caressed my face,
drew lines and shadows
on my brow and eyes.

I once painted youth with colors,
with tattoos and bright designs –
yet it came closer,
and offered me glasses
as a gift of comfort.

It whispered in my ear,
stole my hearing,
and left medicine
as my daily drink.

I kept walking, hopeful,
but it placed pain
upon my knees.

My garden of flowers
turned into a field of thorns,
my night-blooming jasmine
pierced by sharp needles.

It clutched my throat,
stole my voice and song –
and thought my youth
was finally gone.

It handed me a cane,
“Lean on this,” it said –
but I resisted,
fought,
and built my fortress strong.

It thought I was a child,
afraid of a ghost –
yet I stood firm,
and it could not win.

I asked fate:
“What should I do?”
Fate replied:
“Never surrender –
fight on, my lady.”

And God became my helper
in the struggle of life –
for each night,
my prayer still
rises to the sky.