Some of my feelings about colouring hair
and the setting sun
come from the flow of years
and how I’m particularly conflicted
about the former.
The sun has no choice but
to sink
in sync with time.
Hair could be coloured or not
to resist
the years passing, colouring
or not colouring
is to come to an acceptance
of life as it is.
Shortly before the day draws its last breath
the setting sun bursts
into brilliance, spews a mouthful of blood
fresh and vivid
onto clouds adrift in the sky.
The chest finds resentment and sorrow
hardest to quell.
A head of shiny black hair
covered in frost and snow
in the blink of an eye.
How should my heart feel?
Shock, then
tremour? After the tremour,
the heart aches
over the years
slipping by like a river.
Hence after the midpoint of my life,
unless I shave my head and cut off
all worldly ties, I wouldn’t dare
let your bright shining eyes
take in my mottled appearance,
even though you continue to pour
your affection over me. How could I bear
to hold the mirror up to my face,
see self-pity and anxiety
night and day?
After much procrastination
and careful thought, I finally decide:
as soon as I’m awake
I shall colour the headful
of years in my hair
in buoyant youth,
obscure the truth
from every prism in the world.
The sun, whether it sets
or not, has nothing to do with me.
