Tukaram, Poem 3556

In old age come colds, catarrhs, and coughs;
a man sits, resting his forehead on his hand.
His face looks like half a dry cocoanut; his nose
runs copiously. He cannot utter a single word
correctly; his breath gurgles through congested
phlegm. His neighbour says, ‘Why doesn’t the
wretch die? We are sick of him.’ Lay aside
everything else, says Tuka, and remember Rama
every moment.