The years, like water, have become as one,
they are almost done,
then for a moment, the years are none,
once formed from brooks, here and there,
suddenly they have turned to air,
falling, falling into that somewhere.
The distant thunder I can always hear,
coming near, yes, coming near,
it has always been my dreaded fear,
this fear of what I cannot see,
relentlessly, my destiny,
my momentary, necesssary mortality.