Genes And Aging

There is a hush inside the bone, A silver thread the stars have known, It winds within the blood’s slow stream And carries time like drifting dream. The lilacs bloom, then fade to dust, The hands grow soft, then stiff with rust, And all the while, the silent spark Dims gently in the growing dark. It is not sorrow, not regret, But something deeper, quieter yet— A lullaby the cells recite To rock the soul from day to night. The skin forgets the warmth of fire, The lips lose hunger, heart desire, And in the dusk, so faint and small, The gene that sings—sings over all.