Reeds

She was a magical imp of desire:
She whistled for me, showing how she burned
By grabbing me, explaining that she yearned
To tender this refreshing load of fire
(With my co-operation), dark and dire
Though it might be, to me. When we returned
From journeying abroad and I had earned
Some respite, I was hoping to retire.

I'm old now, but I really should be young.
I'm sleepy, but I should be wide awake.
There's no bread, but lately I've dined on cake.
Some residue of ash sits on my tongue.
The frogs have stolen all the songs I've sung.
The reeds are burning, lighting up the lake.