"Hello"

I wrote a poem from the past

Found it and read aloud, “hello”

with apathy and nothing else

as if I could recall

a passage written in my youth,

now insulted, I read on,

a line of which, proclaimed my age

as if I was no longer young

no longer a dreamer

dreaming dreams of days

that were built merely on day dreams

to be forever young

no longer though, one could tell

(or so the print would say)

because only those of grown

dream to be forever young

nostalgia grows with seasons

not in deserts dry,

yelled the poem in cryptic form

so insulted I read on

not showing it on my cheek

swearing mistakes are strewn

I told the poem with lead nor ink

And with victory, I smiled, nonetheless

For the author will fall to me

Older whom which may be the one

Who writes the poem just now,

and not the one who reads

so be my hair gray tomorrow,

still younger I will be

because the author will remain

nothing but an infinite memory