Every single strand of silver in my beard,
ones that shoot out on my head,
a laurel for gained experience
of decades on this realm of existence.
And the pushback in my hairline,
a marker for fights and wins which may not have made the headline.
A soldier still, in the front line.
Out of the dark, still I shine.
Heady.
Yes, rock-steady.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem