Tired eyes look back from the mirror
At the first winter beard with unmistakable white.
As once blonde and crimson strands somehow got bleached
Sometime back in 2006.
Maybe it was the war?
One of the most prominent rises from my chin
As an exclamation, like the bony finger of the grim reaper beckoning.
Check your pockets for change,
The ferry toll across the styx will not be waived.
Y mi corazon negro will not be taken in trade.
But the dust from Stephen Crane and the Black Riders
Sure keep the sunsets pretty.