I’ve worked it out,
the day I will die,
a moment that sees me floating in the sky.
It’s not about the years;
It’s not about the days;
It’s not about the hours – beyond the dark between your eyes.
The summer months take their turn
on a life filled with light for us to earn.
If I’m lucky I will see my 80th year
which gives me 38 summers left to complete my sphere.
Not a lot, when you put it like that.
It wakes you up – to this plot – of a fragile life to burn.
Think about all the things you still need to learn.
Did you finish that book yet?
Will you own that beautiful house?
Did you see your grandkids – walking all about?
Will you marry that woman who’s always shouting out?
Did you visit that place, while dreaming about a drought?
Thirty-eight summers left to do it all.
Will you let the years pass by and ruin it all?
Did you let the winter months take you by surprise?
Will you escape the hustle and bustle while dancing with the guys?
Did you plan the future with a massive savings account?
That would’ve been wise.
I’m sure that you didn’t;
I’m sure that you’re not thinking;
I’m willing to bet my life that your mind is slowly shrinking.
Thirty-eight summers left until I die.
What will you be remembered for?
When I’m flying in the sky.