Tuesday Sonnet: The Wisdom of the Old

I know not of the wisdom of the old.
I do not even know who called it that:
Perhaps an old man, mumbling where he sat –
Which means it’s vanity. Or was it told
By someone who still walked the middle age?
But then does he not undermine his claim,
By saying wisdom’s deeper down his lane?
– Be as it may. It’s likely I’ll engage
With language better, with experience.
But then the only thing I really know,
This inner sunlight, precious and intense,
Will glow no more - like ashes lost in snow.
I guess this is how youth takes leave from hence;
Sung poorly, like first love, long days ago.