Will I ever make it to the age of Old;
and will I stay myself long enough
to measure with a wizened eye
the distances I've traveled ---
Time has not been unkind;
it has worn me down with grace.
Its strokes are soft and feathered,
I a mountain to the winged gull in flight.
Time has not been unfriendly;
it has come to know me well—
friend as old as the Hours themselves—
and I, a second too far gone.
Will I remember who I am, before
the sun remembers itself in flame ---
Will I ever make it to the age of Old?
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