May 13, 2009
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Birds overhead from Southern adventures
Some planes behind them with nothing but passengers
With a thousand words for everyday of their adventurous Southern stays
But far below I quietly rest
To kiss the Earth’s soil isn’t a test
How I long for the sky
Day after day
To spread my wings and then start to fly
But not matter
For adolescent dreams
Dead and buried, their fate, it seems
That graveyard is a place I wouldn’t like to go
The task of counting every dead dream
A task I would not wish on my most hated foe
An effort to mourn for those dreams is an effort to waste
For the aged have told me, in our hearts, a room for the dreams of the young, shall not be encased
How sad I am when I hear the words of the wise
It’s as though the youthful idealism has leapt from their eyes
So, I decide, when I become gray, youth and only youth
I pray is my prize

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