Do your writings age,
like wine
Or turn to vinegar,
—left behind
Do your thoughts get
old and gray
Or stay well muscled,
—youth in play
Is your will still yours
to bend
Enslaved by nothing,
—sans pretense
Is there love upon
your tree
There for the picking,
—wild and free
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May,2017)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem