My boyhood days –

Oh golden suns!

Oh endless maze

Where brooklets run!

A well-writ book

Now done and bound,

Though well I look

Cannot be found.

I fear it lost

On dusty shelf

Where last I tossed

My better self;

Outshined today

Like memories

Spilt on the way

By Time’s soft breeze.

So weary now,

So worn and grey

With wrinkled brow

And numbered day,

I think I know

Where it must be –

Dust-bound and closed

Inside of me.