Night is the time for the old to die,
Weary with long aching bones and sorrows,
Stiff in their muscles and ways,
Slipping down stairs into young memories,
Joyful yelling, puppy love,
Mother's cooking, and wooded glens,
And the sharp pining of broken hearts,
All so crisp,
So clear,
So at odds,
With the dull fog of life,
With eyes that blur,
Words that twist and crack,
The blink of years alone pales to centuries with the other half.