When I look into those aged orbs,
those eyes of cerulean antiquity
I can almost feel those memories,
what of quondam days.
And all I have are pictures, grey,
a scrapbook of bygone today\'s
photographs of erstwhile friends
gone away to make their amends.
How age coalesces like every word said,
every year a chapter and then,
paragraphs the months
and my minutes are my sentences
and morals are my syntax,
and the way I say it
is the language of my life.
And when I look into those aged orbs,
that have spoken more and are worth the words,
proffer to me your parlance, please,
oh, what of quondam days indeed!