When do old men feel powerful again?  When do the lilies bloom beneath the snow?  
When does the youth of memory refuse to grow cold?  I tell you it is when
 Old men dare to weave the strands of meaning into the voids of time.  
My days Horace will not die like this upon the bough.  
The first leaves of spring will not be saved for those who know not of Springs past,
Nor know of sorrows to come, even as they have come before:  death upon death.
I tell you Horace, the swift days of age are a current sweeping away every bulwark.  
No man stands before age longer than age can stand.  
But yet I stand, my unitary self set against the vast emptiness that awaits.  
But Horace, your youth amuses me.  
You are like a finely tuned instrument with no player.  
Your notes are empty, or if played at all, are cacophony to my aged ear.  
I will die playing the notes God has given me to play.  
Even as the dawn of your day closes upon the dusk of mine, 
These final notes, by God’s grace, I shall play.  
(c) 2011 FXP