I would have walked a thousand miles
If asked to do by you,
Since love is that which reconciles
What’s artful with what’s true.

But you preferred to hold your tongue
And turn your back on me,
And all because I’m not as young
As when I used to be.

But what is age but just a way
Of looking at a thing.
We’re both as tender as a day
In geminating spring.

The fact, though, that you think we’re not
Contributes to the cares I’ve got.

Photo by Tom Parsons on Unsplash

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