I lost my eyes sight.
I lost my poetic writing talents,
But never lose my name.
A poet that shall ever live in poets’ hearts.

I lost my words, my pen and papers.
I lost my new poems and lyrics,
But my old ones are still in my brain,
Waiting to sail a few miles to find a new home.

I lost my ink pot.
I lost my muscular strength.
Now, in my ninth decade,
My heart longs to hear someone read my poems.

Time has come.
Time, now, sails again.
Mornings turn into nights, a split second,
Now, an old maple leaf, it’s time for me to wither.