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Our Seasons Are Not Many

'Tis said those past their fiftieth birthday their better days have seen
Perhaps we then must live on borrowed time is what they really mean
Since I was a young fellow many Seasons have come and gone
And many I've known now with the departed though life of course goes on.

And life goes on as usual though the Seasons come and go
And the stream from the high country to the big river flow
On it's journey to saltwater through the coastal lands far away
From altitude to sea level it babbles night and day.

Long after I am forgotten one of the deceased unsung
That stream from the high country with the babble on it's tongue
Will travel to the river on it's journey to the sea
It's babble is eternal and it flows eternally.

Our Seasons are not many and our span of time is brief
And are we that more important than the brown Autumn leaf
That drops off of it's mother branch in the chilly winds of the late Fall?
Compared to Mother Nature our achievements are quite small.

Though some use cosmetics to hide their age wrinkles and colour their natural gray
Those who have passed their fifty have known a better day
And though the river will flow forever to the distant ocean shore
Our span of life in time's eye brief eighty years less or more.

by Francis Duggan

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