An old man likes to return in memory 

to the days of his youth 

like a stranger who longs to go back to his own country. 

He delights to tell stories of the past 

like a poet who takes pleasure in reciting his best poem. 

He lives spiritually in the past 

because the present passes swiftly, 

and the future seems to him 

an approach to the oblivion of the grave.

 An hour full of old memories

 passed like the shadows

 of the trees over the grass