Time

It´s cold outside,
the leaf is falling.
The feeling of dying is in the air.
The summer is past,
the winter’s coming.
The end of the lucky days in the sun,
the warmth has passed by.
The year is passing,
soon it’ll end.
Another year over.
How many will there be?
How often will I say: “It’s the end of a year”
before it’s the end of my life?
What will come, what will go?
I’m sad, but will it pass by?
Same as the days, the weeks, the years?
There will be a new spring, a new summer,
but will there always be a new year?
And how many of them
will I see?

10-24-99