Timor Mortis Me Conturbat

I feel lumps growing under my skin,

my sturdy heartbeat has grown thin.

I hide lost hair under an old man's hat:

Timor mortis me conturbat.

Morning's glory does not come often,

other hardnesses continue to soften.

Lust and love? I've forgotten all that

Timor mortis me conturbat.

Mirrors show me an old, lined man,

there is little I did, that I still can.

I've no boon companion, just a miserable cat,

Timor mortis me conturbat.

Autumn's the season I savour most,

the season of witches or occasional ghosts.

The candle grows short, wax or fat,

Timor mortis me conturbat.

Memory fails, I suffer fools' jokes,

there's solace in mummery, incense smokes:

a coffin, a stone, in pace requiescat!

Timor mortis me conturbat.

Footnote:

I have taken a syntactical liberty. Although strictly speaking,
the verb is generally at the end of a Latin period, this is merely a
phrase).