Dear Crone, tell me your life, now you´re old & grey,
Do you sit your days in the sun & at night, merely pray?
Do you sup sop without teeth, & sip milk, tepid & warm?
Do you hide away from crowds, to weather the storm?
Dear boy, I dance in the sun, & beneath the moon, I Pray,
I sing songs of happiness, & with this life, I still daily play,
I sup all of nature’s bountiful fare, & I quaff her red wine,
I hide from no one at all, fear nobody, & with all, I entwine.
Dear Crone, tell me all your secrets, but without your “alas”,
Dear boy, when I return to this earth, as a newly born lass,
I shall find you grown old, & then, I´ll question you the same,
So remember my dear young boy, that life´s merely a game.