A letter to my son

I am old and weary son
My muscles broken apart
Never strong again
My bones like a maize stalk
My teeth countable

Reality be
My days are almost over
Look! Ever ill and weak
Not even a bite
Food taste bitter herbs

No time for joy
My only joy is you
Do good you can
Have humanity
Hold on good things

My age mates departed
No company ever
Life such short it is
No room to choose
Whether to live or die