48.

When I was young the world was young: you know

The rest. Instead of making more sense

The world makes less. My eyes dim, my desire

Unabated gets lost on the way. This

Tongue stumbles into the tyranny of thorns

And the surfaces condemn me to be

Alone: death — rude, savage, cruel — empties me

And leaves me to waste by the road I once

Strode along, when I was young. Youth is never

Wasted: there’s just not enough of it.

No one wants a dry repose: the music

Seems sadder now. There’s nothing to be done.

If this pen could pause, and turn back the tide,

I’d never say again that time had lied.