Bencze Attila - early growing old

My years even the rivets
beat the tin of my existence.
I was not older with a minute
merely my consciousness flied keep moving.

I feel it so, slowly get old
on the awkward smile of my years,
crackling between mud huts
and with himself pulls the lyre sleigh.

As if already fifty of his halves I would go,
the wisdom was cut to fit I so
the cold staircase evenings
and on the wall of cellars the decay.

I am more already the time,
what did not distribute something else only existence slap,
and now leaden past tense carries
to search end-poems home.