You’ll be frozen in time
And if the past may serve
As an indication
I’ll be hurled forward, upward
With lightning’s speed

I at ninety-something years 
And you at something less
(Though an old soul nonetheless)
Staring at my golden scraps
Through your monocle glass

What words are we, then
What sounds, what sights
What wrongs did we choose to correct 
What hands did we not fail to hold
What love, of only this, I’m sure