the world is old, yet

the new day is young

 

we are older now, but

let us fondly remember

when we were young

and our hearts less burdened

by cares and troubles, and

life held for us such promise then

 

our lives are as the flower

that blooms bright with vigor, and

then slowly withers and fades away

 

desiccated petals, like memories of lives past,

blow away in the evening wind,

and are forgotten

but, the rose garden remains . . . for young lovers

 

the world is old, yet

the new day is young, and

the river of life flows on

 

 

 

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