I give you my box of years.
Limit is the source of all our tears.
We are limited in so many ways
But the limit most limiting is our days.
You were thirty-nine.
We danced and drank wine.
There are less years in your box.
Pilfered by the crow and stolen by the fox.
Now you are fifty-three.
You are no longer beautiful to me.
First there was hate and blame,
Until looking in the mirror I admitted
My face was not the same.
You had every right to turn the page
Because of my old age.
Now look in the box,
The old, beautiful box!
The box holds less years:
Mozart, regrets, rondos, tears.