Svajūnas Daškevičius. Senility

Stooping, deaf in the ageing hours

Hobbling towards the house of God

Through streets of strewn flowers,

Nearer to your own you trod.

And your eyes lift to the skies,

A mysterious new space,

Where the souls of ancestors rise –

Wait, it’s not yet your place.

Stooping, deaf and on your own,

Disappearing into the mist.

The silent evening prayer alone,

The melting candle unmissed.