Sixty to one hundred years is far too long a life,
Too much time for wallowing, in anger, fear and strife.
We should appear aged 35, not a moment younger,
Mellowed some by wisdom gained, yet not devoid of hunger.
Free from past regrets and lists of those who've hurt us,
Love would reclaim spirits, as we let old pains desert us.
Then we'd get just 30 days, so each is seen as dear,
Pressed so hard to spend them well, we'd have no time for fear.
We couldn't afford the luxuries of anger or confusion,
Aware the meter's running, no "Someday I'll..." illusions.
We'd get right to work contributing, our legacy to leave,
Doing our best, for all the rest, what tapestries we'd weave!
Our lives would burn with purpose, our souls would radiate,
Our talents harmonized, what a world we'd help create!
And when the clock struck midnight on that final day,
We'd leave chin up, invigorated, our work had seemed like play.
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