How oft we wished our lips were sealed
to scathing words the heart revealed;
for, spoken once, so oft they do return
to scar the soul and with repentence mourn.

Sadly youth hears not what it is told
by the wit and wisdom of the old,
leaves them naught but melancholy,
seen in the relection of their folly.

But yesterday's clouds we cannot change,
nor there stormy patterns re-arrange;
nor guarantee tomorrow's fruitful store,
so today's sunshine heed a little more.

So, should I take solace of my pen,
to learn about the why, the where, the when,
and all my childhood tears rush to hide
its anguished days that burn inside,

Oh! Time, that's left us battered and decayed,
and strength that was, now in weakness paid;
what price is youth's most precious mould,
that leaves naught but wisdom to the old?

Was life as pure as gold that's finely spun,
and warmer than the warmest sun?
We, once seeds, beneath the earth dreampt of spring,
will soon return, with floral tributes, life re-calling.