After sixty years one is less agile
And most ev'ryone is younger than you;
They tend to treat you as extra fragile,
Which is a good thing because it is true.
Time becomes more amorphous and less rushed
(Was it three, or perhaps ten years ago?)
And so one speaks less and one's tones are hushed,
Unsure, remote, hesitant, kind of slow.
It is the time of life to go within,
To become quiet, to escape the din,
To break free of all of the commotion,
To ride the ebb-tide into the ocean.
It is the time of sunset and return
When all the ties to this sad world are burned.