Ancient Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang
Ancient
Nineteen fifty-one, the year I came.
Now I see, it's an old, worn game.
Not quite a relic, in a dusty case,
I pray that's not my final place.
I want to go out, with a lively stride,
To that next world, if I'm deemed to ride.
No quiet fading, no gentle sleep,
But a brave strong leap, secrets to keep.
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8/29/2026 10:15:02 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
