Time is the thief that takes our bonny youth
and turns it into less than perfect age,
wrapped in a blanket made of prickly thorns.
Unwillingly we wrap up in the thorns.
Remembering how painless was our youth,
we resent the sheer discomfort of old age.
Aware that wisdom only comes with age,
we seek a way to bear the hurtful thorns,
for there is no return to lusty youth
Sweet youth must pay the way for age and thorns.
For Andrea's tritina contest