In the iridescence of youth
I talked irresponsibly
Without even a thought
That one day I shall grow old
And see things in a colder light
It was a time
Not of fruition yet but of flowering
Everything was wonderful and fresh
Specially my darling
Who seemed not of this world.
Now I am past that morning
In the merciless blaze of noon
Shorn of the gloss my lies are glaring
Now they put me to shame
And are embarrassing.
Yet fools there are
Who are not cool and calculating
Nor are they discreet and discriminating
They find a kind of truth in their lies
To kindle their being
From the fires that burn in their bosoms
They sow flames
Along the furrows of their heart
Ever blossoming
And pity not the one that bleeds
On a stony tract full of thorns
Its glory is not in what it gets
But in what it gives
The dying sun flaming the evening sky
When climbing down its fathomless grave.
