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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=365804" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On My Mother's 80th.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are no answers to your questionings; <br>If eighty years have not revealed the truth, <br>Then how could I, this child of your imaginings<br>Begin to comprehend your loss of youth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perhaps you let it slip and lose all meaning<br>When time last yawned, and you did fall asleep, <br>Then youth took flight while you stayed still and dreaming<br>Within some sepia’d year you once did keep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wild eyed and worn, you always look about you<br>And wonder what dismay has brought to this, <br>The thread of age has tied and bound and caught you<br>And thoughts of death now tremble at your lip.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But yet, your youth may still be seen and found there<br>Way back beside an old welsh village pit<br>Where long dead miners carol ‘Men of Harlech’, <br>And fresh young girls in neat white pinnies sit; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">To wait the miners singing at the darkness, <br>To wait the steelmen, wandering from the shift, <br>Until your brothers chaff you in the moonlight<br>And you go in, sit by the hearth, and sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are no questions now that I can answer, <br>There are no harvests left for us to reap, <br>For youth is spent and wasted on a moment<br>And age is all that we have left to keep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">9 October 1993</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=David+Lewis+Paget">David Lewis Paget</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=365804" data-title="On My Mother's 80th. de David Lewis Paget" data-description="There are no answers to your questionings; 
If eighty years have not revealed the truth, 
Then how could I, this child of your imaginings
Begin to comprehend your loss of youth.

Perhaps you let it slip and lose all meaning
When time last yawned, ..."></div>
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