Poems of Mi Fu
(On seeing white hairs)
Hesitant below the mountain, the river must flow on.
I grow even more carefree.
Goods are plentiful. Times are harmonious.
Let's take the time at this chance meeting to sing happily again.
Idle on this tower, we've leaned here a long time.
As far as eye can see, green river's waves.
But my mirror is like a millstone.
All around my shiny hairpin, everything is snow.
Chinese poets worry too much about their hair. The first threads of grey and we get a panicky poem, or ten. These poets don't even live that long for the most part. They don't live long enough to lose their eyesight or their libido or, even more importantly, their teeth. Grant an older person one wish and, nine out of ten times, they'll ask for their teeth back. Old-people sex -- I'm talking non-pharmaceutical here -- is in some ways far better than the young-people sex everyone is more familiar with, if considerably less frequent. You'll see for yourself, if you live this long. Until then, brush your teeth after every orgasm, er, meal. You'll be glad you did. Even the celibate have to eat.