The Veteran

Here must I sit and stare,
Withered and wrinkled;
Knowing the spaces there
With blood are sprinkled.
Why in the smoky sky
Missed I the sad truth?
Why did I not die
Young with the blood of youth?
Why did I not die
Hot in the heat of noon?
Here must I sleep and lie
Under a cool moon.
Here must I die acage,
Pale in the pale light.
Cold in my icy age,
Cold in the icy night.

by Leon Gellert

Other poems of LEON GELLERT (81)

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