November 12,


What if I lost the best years of my life?

As if I ever held them in my hand.

As if a rainy night, or stranger's knife

had never stolen years from better men.

What if they slipped, like water, through my hands?

They've never made a safe that could keep days

from coming to a close when daylight ends

or starting up again when moonlight fades.

What can we do but walk until we fall?

What can we do but wake when it is light?

And if you call me careless after all,

I'll ask how you got through your longest night,

and say why I could not call it a waste:

each day I lived is still with me, today.