I doubt leisure is the gift given old age.
It seems the river Song runs swifter now.
Still I do seek to fish from the flow
Lyrics that break all barriers.
My body may have turned to an ash heap of pains,
Yet I poke at the smothered ambers
To sometimes stoke a fire again.
My mind is ever warmed by its glow,
This strange simmering of words called poetry.
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