I can't reopen this letter
covered with the dust of time
among my hundreds of old books-
reading it would only make me sadder-

the rose that's withered
can't be remade anew
each flight of the bird
can't be repeated as it flew-

how I wished I were kinder
ready to spare and forgive
despite my every effort
I couldn't in my bitter grief-

now a desolate old man
my lonely tears offer no relief-
life and time wait for none
once fled-  lost is every living gift.