If the good die young, and it's we that are left,
We who are also good, to varying extents,
But who are not finished. In this, the finishing school of life,
We who have a chance to step up another rung
On our small heavens on earth, it is our chance now.
Now that the glimmers of old age peer back at us
In the gray softening stances of unrecognized friends,
We who are rounding our last turn, Or who have many miles
To go; at the brink of eldership. The only ones who will
Remember world war two, through the eyes of our parents,
Perhaps the last generation who will escape world war Three,
What good can we do, now?
Perhaps we are reporters, our perspectives growing,
After a certain age, God might start listening, not to our pleas,
But to our experience. We've seen a lot and will see more.
Perhaps it's our time to tell stories; to weave new morals
To talk public stands, or perhaps to soften, work less,
Enjoy more, accept ourselves as we are. The warts will
Start to show, even plastic surgery can't cover them all.
And so perhaps we will even be the survivors, in the next
Reunions, in 10 20 or 30 more years. Each time one of us dies,
Our collective spirit is concentrated, honed in the those of us left.
If it is me, what do you want me to say for you?