I looked upon my native country's walls, 
if once they were strong, now they were decayed,
fatigued by time's inevitable race, 
by which their former valor now must fade.

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.