An elderly boy

The elderly boy

How is it possible that a boy could grow old?
That his fingers should shrivel as though they were cold.
What cruel hand of fate could let this come true?
And squander my feelings and all that I knew.

Why is happiness reserved in the young?
Is this not unfair to those who become,
Aged and wiser, and who look to the stars,
To see if the distant future is ours.

So now I await my coffin with joy,
For all I am, is an elderly boy.