Poetry

A jackal is howling at the moon
while the eyes of some small animals gleam in the dark,
the wind moans around the corners of the house
and at times outside its just dark night
with long shadows falling on the wall,
and in a room only a single light is on
while an old man moans half-dazed
as he is busy enduring the pain of approaching death.
His face is white-pale and sweating,
time passes far too slowly, drags on hour after hour,
and portraits of some family patriots
peer into my eyes as if they do know some deep secrets
and I wonder where life is going
when the world changes, when time does move on.