The fading brain, that dims the mind’s clean lamp.
The years pass by, and soot begrimes the glass.
Features sag, yet ‘tis the inner working’s damp,
that tells of toil, all one’s time amassed.
      The feet, they soon enough begin to drag.
      The arms, they lose their mighty strength.
      Yet, it is the mind, when it starts to flag,
      whispers to us, your time’s run out its length.
Granted, just a dram of burning oil;
how we burn it, sings all our choices made.
A burst or glimmer, all return to soil;
scared or heroic, down to dirt we’re laid.
           If I could pray, one prayer strong and true,
           My mind intact, when time to say adieu.