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,
foreigners among today, shadows in the fog?

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