I remember fields of youth
where we so grandly played -
we were strong, fleet of foot
how we wish they'd stayed.

The eternal spring of loving
ah, those endless days of bliss -
when tender words were spoken
and expectations of a kiss!

The days we worked with vigor
the nights of splendid passion -
we're they then so long ago?
or have we fallen out of fashion?

Middle age has flown away
all that's left is dying slowly -
all our sins,  we hope forgiven
in the hopes of being holy.

What's left,  is heaven's arms
praying we're accepted -
quashing thoughts of hell
if sadly,  we're rejected.