Poetry: Autobiography

I am fifty nine
my first gray hair, twenty.
my nervous system,
stratified memories,
three million years old.
My friend melancholy
hides under my rib cage.
Once I asked him
hey, how old am I ?
Perplexed, he answered, why?
You are seven hundred years old
'cause troubled and distressed
Dante wrote
La Divina Commedia
with his own blood
in thirteen hundred six.
Against arrogance and sword
not me, I am almost like a creeper;
anyone could stump on me, anytime.
Against arrogance and sword,
not me, but a daring young man
rises headstrong
like cannon and gun
from inside me.
I met this man
in seventeen eighty nine
in front of Bastille
during the reign of
Louis the Fourteenth.
I am fifty nine
my love is only eighteen.
Sky and the blue stars
are always eighteen.
Pretty women, eruption and
moonlight
remain eighteen.