When I'm grey and old
And death is about to turn my blood cold,
I know my son will ask,
Of whom he sees in my album
And I will take to task
To explain that you were my flower of autumn,
Or the other half that made my youth wild.
And I know my child
Will wish you were my wife,
But then, you will be long gone from my life.

But my prayers are that my son
Will meet your daughter,
And that the blood of my own
Will find joy and laughter.
I know his eyes shall not pass her beauty,
The same beauty that choked his father at twenty.

And thereafter, in my heart, I will await death,
Convinced that I have witnessed my love's rebirth.
And when I die, bury me on the bed of roses,
And write me epitaphs and requiems of your choices.
booklover_vivian

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My heart reckons of the days forthcoming