The sun rises high to the peak of the sky.
At last I sit and rest.
I mix my rye with citrus most dry
and clutch it to my breast.

I feel the cold burn my joints, so old,
and know that I’ve been blessed,
for to see what’s told of that glittering gold
has me quite possessed.

I raise my glass to the world en masse
and think of my last request.
I feel it pass, that moment alas,
and feel my soul arrest.

The sun sinks low, the day grows slow,
and begins, the edge, to crest.
The darkness does grow and I’ve nothing to show.
The day is not impressed.

As the end draws near I shiver with fear,
my fortitude stands suppressed.
I watch stars appear, their light so dear,
remembering dreams unexpressed.

The sun leaves the sky, my throat is so dry,
I’m wholly dispossessed.
With one final sigh and a tear in my eye,
I drink the last of the zest.