Withering leaves are flags,
Signing the march of the seasons:
They are lost in the wind
Youth has gone; stuff fills the void:
A life of shopping, cleaning, and waiting
Unimaginable to the urgent young
Who, breathless, move on:
Next party, next girl, next kiss
Filling their days
With a chaos of pleasure
But unable to luxuriate in it:
No time! No time!
I'm slower now, calmer,
More thoughtful;
A line is drawn: that's done, over.
Now, what's next?
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