Nervously, I quiver
like an ancient arrow
in a weathered quiver
swaying as the winds blow
in the midst of summer.
Gallantly, I stand
like an olden warrior,
each peril I stand
though the vaunted vigor
has left each aging hand.
I thank God’s constant light
that shone upon my way,
my heart still feels light,
all the cares of the day
I give each a good fight.
All fights I may not last,
still I feel content,
when dusk settles at last
to the Omnipotent
with trust my fate I cast.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem