A photo in a book once told

That things we held in youth grow old,

That in numbers we keep our time to count,

In the end a small amount.


One year I remember well in heart,

Ten years that keep us far apart,

In memory lighter than lightest air,

Long departed from thought and care.


A glass broken that is half-full,

Empty now that time will cull,

From wounds unhealed in setting sun,

That rise again and will be done.


Last of our things to say,

To think we had more yesterday,

And be still unsettled in our faith yet strong,

That time so short could seem so long.


At last, when those days are gone

Like the silence after a pleasant song, 

Like pictures moving on a screen,

Things once felt and thought and seen,

Looking back you'll wonder, wonder if it was true

That he after all was really you.