Youth and age: A poem 

The joke’s on the young joker 

He can’t even play poker 

Wisdom is a wonderworker 

But age is its broker 

Cool is the evening sun 

when summer is done 

Heat feeds youth’s passion 

But misdeeds are its ration 

When one is old, does one think of gold? 

When silent and grey and vigour sold? 

The lights shine bright, but mistakes unfold 

for the innocent and the bold 

Youth like a river meets its end 

Hurt and broken at every bend 

The fire dies, but embers calm 

Closure is the soothing balm