Let Us Grow Old

I see through the years my cells scream for help,

the mirror is always telling me the ugly truth:

that not even science can defy death,

nor can I defy the mirror’s faith.

There are some white-lab-coat beings

who think my cells can run a different software;

they call it reprogramming or extraction,

like a ninja infiltrating my quantum body,

evicting the old, cranky cells

and replacing them with young, quivering ones,

much like a man in his mid-life crisis,

craving his youth and his teenage lovers.

Why must I walk this path?

Is it a crime to grow older and wrinkled?

Is it a shame to display the experience I worked so hard to earn?

Why do I want to live over a hundred years

when surviving a single year is already a miracle?

Can you imagine living for more than a century?

How many wars must one witness?

How many sorrows must one suffer?

How much injustice must one bear?

No, I don’t want to rejuvenate; what a selfish thing to do.

Even Mother Nature grows older, some say she’s in her mid-life,

and I cannot see her craving a younger planet.

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