Look at the old lock in the wooden door:
by God, iron it was but rusty it went.
Formerly glittering, sparkling in the sun
finally crumbling reddishbrown in the dust.
A sign of solidity once; afterwards
now without remedy, utterly fragile,
by God, iron it was but rusty it went,
buried in rocks, now but mixed to sand.
What a difference in destinies they keep hold!
one same material same chemical race,
as humans between the young and the old.
Let’s see what it is – why! it’s iron not gold.