Though your bones will turn to dust
There is still time to love and lust
Though your muscles soon will rot
And memory will slip away
The spinning of no wheel will leave you cold.
The proud, the strong, the brave, the bold
Wander still this rotten earth
And though you might measure life
In quarter or half centuries,
There is solace yet for both the bowed and unbent.
Some, they yearn to win just once,
But loss is real.
To count the cost is revelry
And the butcher’s bill is liberating
Even when the aching fills the days
And nights go by, longer now.