המתת השור

Oh...as we grow old
boys grow cold
when shall i experience my firt refusal as my beauty is fading away
because i am growing older
because i reached an age where the only evidence is flesh decay >
because my bosom is not good anymore for a child to be nurtured with
because my smile is caring the first tiny wrinkles
the smile of death ?

as i am approaching my eyes to the mirror
i am gazing at time carressing my skin
i could live in illusion
now illusion is not even an option
as i scrutinise my desperate attempt
to win
vanity