Alas for we who were once counted bold!
Can our forgotten truths be found among
the words now whispered, then more loudly sung,
those fires that burnt hot, now ashes cold?
Why is it men and women must grow old?
It is our payment for once being young.
Stephen Brooke ©2019
This was to be the second half of a sonnet but I finally decided it was a complete thought in and of itself.