And one recalls one's early life,
The old anger, arguments and rage,
Do not seem worthy of the strife.
Old triumphs – hardly worth the praise;
Old wrongs – all blunted by the years;
Old errors – all by time erased;
Old worries, – gone, and all the fears.
There may have been a thing or two
That one might have wished to reverse,
But there's no use to fret or rue,
Forward moving time's perverse...
So, as one gets older still,
And muses what it all may mean,
Long days are with nostalgia filled,
Without regrets what could have been...