I see a glint of grayness in my hair,
And fearful typhoons in my ears howl.
All wingless longings scatter in the air,
And vague, uncanny fears grip my soul.

To thwart my great ambition. But I pray,
At Time’s alter. Tell Him That I must,
For bonus moments, with Him now parley,
To fructify my efforts. Time, the Just,

Does seen to listen; seems to say, “Amem”.
I start to ration moments and disburse,
These moments with a thirsty acumen.
And although this has made me tense and terse,

(For time degrades the toiling hearts of men),
It still may let me write unthought-of verse.