Friday, March 13, 2009


They march in ranks, row on row,
All the hosts of men brought low;
No escape and none aspired,
Just peace of mind - they're all retired.

Youth considers, then rejects
Such lonely thoughts in all respects
To wake one day and find, somehow,
That they've been found and are in tow.

Years of labor, swiftly flown
Joyous moments gone too soon,
Years of hopes, mostly vain,
Time to think, too much pain.

Days gone past, too few remain;
Too little sun, too much rain.
Without God how stay sane?
Hallelujah, it's all inane.

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