Too old, I am, to think that a falling star can fulfill a beautiful desire,
Too old, for sure, to say a few words of senseless thoughts, perhaps a satire.
Too old, for certain, to believe in tales of magic, in Cinderella or Snow White,
Too old, maybe, to lay on he bed and think I am one of them, at midnight.

Too old, they say, I am , to chuckle childishly over not-so-funny jokes,
Too old, I suppose, to dream of finding my dream gift, inside a pair of socks.
Too old, I realized, to feel the tickle of my love's fingertips, on my wrinkled skin.
Too old, I know, to expect anything at all, from all those 'trusted' kith and kin.

Am I too old, though, to not fill the sky with balloons big and small, blue, pink, green and red?
Too old, you think, to jump up and down with my best friend happily on that spongy bed?
But, do you ever get old enough, to not sing your favourite songs in the shower, without a pause?
Old, old enough, to not dance freely around the house and imagine a round of applause?

At times, I ask myself, an I too old to believe in things magical or great?
My old, tired heart, flutters a bit, when to hide from reality, I find an escape.
Am I too old, I ask sometimes, to feel all those alluring things once more?
I don't think, that one ever gets old enough, to become a kid again, to the core.