I wish I did not live on borrowed breath,
that I had faith to face tomorrow’s death.
I wish when bones of mine the soil does smother,
that far beyond this life, there waits another.
I wish that I could hear the talking trees,
that I could catch their whispers on the breeze.
I wish my father had not died so young.
His death, when I was fourteen years, had stung!
I wish my son still spoke to me and shared
his wife and daughter, though I’m now grey-haired.
I wish that I could feel no guilt or shame,
stay stoically serene, always the same.
I wish I could compose like kindly Keats.
That when I’m old my poet’s heart still beats.
I wish I glowed with grace and golden gleaming:
like child, forever young, forever dreaming!