The great work, no doubt, is held off for good,
all the past years have taken their toll.
I've exploited myself with no mercy,
and I see now, the uselessness of it.
Futile is all that toilsome energy
with a machine of low efficiency.
And it is late: beyond fifty some years
you cannot make changes, you cannot change.
It is pointless to lament or be mad,
the desert of old age is now waiting,
the skin is wrinkling, the teeth are falling,
let's live a little bit before dying.
Translated by: Maria Bencsath