What is it which gets old within us (2)

What is it which gets old within us

by Lucian Blaga

(in my imperfect translation)

What is it which gets old within us,

that unexpectedly makes us rise one morning

With the desire to hide

Name and face?

What is it which gets old within us,

that when we reach the twilight

makes us find out that we belong to the past,

estranged from contemporaries, fog's shadows?

It surely cannot be the pulsating blood

nor the beating heart, the passion, or spirit,

nor the echoes reverberating in our ears,

but only the tear

for old men cry old tears