A poem about growing old.

Remember the time when we were young and strong.

All the world at our beckon call.

With passion and pride, we played on.

Now, we rot, prisoners of this immovable mountain.

Where did the years go?

When blooms ripened in the warmth of the sun.

Left to whither, to die.

Hands of time, you always won.

Cast off this armor of old.

Breaking through the squalor that holds you inside.

Bring us back into the fold.

Hole back time; give us our

destiny.

Where does this wind blow?

When famine bleeds the garden dry.

Pruning time has come too late.

Hands of time, hear my cry.

How I wish to be young again.

Dancing in the forests of mystical rains.

The rain cleanses my soul.

Putting an end to this haze.

Where is my precious flower?

Companion to the dirt,

A funeral held upon every hour.

Hands of time, end this loneliness and hurt.