We all slowly vanish from that hour of life when we are young,
a time thereupon
when we might feel immune to what has not yet become.
Those days when we never see Death as our lives among,
thinking our own mortality to be quite under our thumb
-just because we would bemoan
our contrite song if left unsung;
and when it's no longer thinkable that our maturity has downright come
-with the sum of our years being shy of fourteen and one-
then you would have a right man become,
my firstborn and least eremite-like son.