When you are old, gray-headed, sleepy, and dozing by the fire, please take down this poem, read it slowly, recall the softness of your eyes in the past, and recall their heavy shadows in the past; how many people loved you in your youthful and joyful time, and admired your beauty, either falsely or sincerely, only One loves your pilgrim-like pure soul and the wrinkles on your aging face; he lowers his head and whispers sadly about the passing of love by the red-lit stove. It paces slowly on the mountain above, hiding its face among a group of stars.