Apollo, I am sad to say, is not getting any younger

Really, no idea why they keep on sending me those gifts.
Three thousand miles. Whiteouts. Snow. Sun. Narrow,
Rocky paths. Scanty sleep. Backs curved, heavy load.
They don’t even know me.

Often is, their children live shorter. What are they thinking?
Three thousand miles. Three thousand years. I am old now, as old as they
Must be tired arriving at my doorstep. They bow before a weak arrow,
Believing, as all who believe, in the undeserving.

Harmony, order, reason. Of all guilt, youth’s the most unforgiving.
Hands no longer string the world so nimbly. Things lie around
Like slothful lions, filled with random blood. Senseless, they fail to notice
A new civilisation by persistent ants.

This is my world. A word beyond contestation
By unripe beings. Gifts or not, I will soon head there anyway
To hoist that ancient winter from the grave of time.

North of the mountains, out on a plain, stars often seem so ripe
You can almost touch them. People there live for over a thousand springs,
In complete happiness.

Next time this naïve poet, this modern hero
Starts to shriek his song, let us collate, as if around a fire,
And exercise our hollow laughter on his spite.

Can’t help but think my feet all too frail for the journey;
I shall probably discontinue half-way
And pay a humble homage
To Mother Earth.