One
perfect day after another comes,
The skies
so blue, cool breezes wafting sounds
Of
bells across the grass from church, the hums
Of
cars along the street making their rounds
From
home to work and back from work to home.
That
is for others now. Young men aspire…
To what
exactly? To greatness? To roam
The world
like Knights Templar? Old men retire,
They
learn Latin, read Proust, listen to birds
All
day outside beneath a shade, pretend
To write
a magnum opus, but the words
They've
stored up for so long now won't descend
From
mind to pen to paper. Yet the sun
Still
shines, the breeze still blows, the rivers run.
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