Stage four tells me my time is limited.
It brings regret
that I did not inhale more deeply,
did not relish every moment of stage three.
Along with age, stage four asks a question;
whatever happened to stage two?
It passed me by like a bottle rocket,
fast but short, and in the end a minor poof.
I have completely forgotten stage one;
but there was fire and laughter.
I'm not sure what the joke was;
it is now a word cloud of lost voices.
Stage four makes me aware of mistakes;
tears fall for missed opportunity.
Even sleep can hold no dream;
there are so few tomorrows.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Barry, a lovely poem of loss and regret. I hope it is just analytical and not personal.
Thanks Marianne, it is both personal and analytical. But I am in remission for now.