WEBVTT

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I have a little
poem entitled Years.

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Sometimes in weariness, I stop.

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Because I've been lucky, I
think the future must be plain.

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Over the trees, the
stars are quite small.

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My friends talk
quietly, and we have all

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come to the same things.

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Now if I die, I will
inherit a while.

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They're similar bodies.

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Now if I listen, someone
is telling a story.

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The characters met.

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They enchanted each
other by speech.

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Though the stories they
lived were not the same.

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Many were distracted into
love, slept and woke alone,

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a while serene.