Every day at sunrise there’s an old man that I see.
Morning eyes scarce open, stares the old man hard at me.
Does he look in envy at my youthful, boyish face?
Skin still taut, no wrinkles that the passing years have traced.

Does he stare in anger at the years through which he aged?
Every month a victory for the side ‘gainst which he waged?
Every week a grey hair, every day, a day that’s spent?
Wondering what happened, where the precious hours went?

Does he mourn my vigour, knowing one day it will go?
Grieving for the passion that one day will cease to flow?
Was he once my equal, does he think I look like him?
Was his spreading waistline once like mine, so flat and trim?

Every day at sunrise there’s an old man that I see.
Aged body failing, yet reminding me of me.
Stretching out my fingers, keep the fearful sight at bay.
Turn the mirror over and the old man goes away.