The Ancient Reflects

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In my age, now, as I smother somehow
The more-than-feeling conviction that I am done,
— Drained, dilapidated and withered –,
In distant soft-floating butterfly wing
Cutting across my vision, to pass, you’ve come

And stay you will not, but in your own impetus,
Slide soothingly, like across a touchscreen;
With your finger touching-caressing my chin-jaw line,
As touched from across a polythene veil;
And to touch I pale not much; lest I’d fail.

I know now, then, why the power of youth
— Its spirit to ignite life, its
Ceaseless spark of energy — is deemed to be controlled
By aging crones, way past their age. In youth is such
All redefining fire with which the ones been could not manage.



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