Passing the mirror I glimpse my balding head.
The years, like hair, have fallen out. My face
is no longer my own. Another appears in its stead.
What have I come to? And where is this place?
Passing the mirror I glimpse my balding head.
Must I celebrate all my editions?
This one, I'm sure, is better than demise.
Yet it is not the one I choose for all conditions
or to wear in the afterlife for God's eyes.
Passing the mirror I glimpse my balding head.