Sunday, 3 May 2015


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.

No comments:

Post a Comment