The Dying Of The Age

Their voices distant sing to tunes,

Of laughter, love, surprise,

While fireflies softly sink, and rise,

On light of tragic moons,

But, nearer still, the empty sounds,

Of thoughts I cannot, dare not think,

Torture me like shadow hounds,

And bring me to the brink,

For all’s not well, and while they sip,

From cups of hope, that ever-empty be,

Or drink honeyed words from every lip,

Well, when you’ve lived, you’ll see,

For now we’ve turned the final page,

And there can read what all can sense,

The Dying of the Age.

2 comments on “The Dying Of The Age

  1. Branka says:

    Very nice Chris, I think I might have taken you to Heathrow once, in the ‘90’s.


    • Christopher Black says:

      I remember a trip there-and have a memory of you I think -but faces fade in my memory these days-but it would have been during the attack on Yugoslavia or later in 1999, or perhaps in 2000-happy to be in contact again.


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