The mirror shows a silver strand,
New creases on my face and hand,
But catch me humming in the rain,
I’m eight years old and home again.
A puddle gleams along the street,
And suddenly I’ve restless feet.
I laugh, I splash, I do not care,
Who sees the child still living there.
The calendar may turn its page,
And leave its mark on every age,
Yet something small inside me stays,
And hums the songs of other days.
So let the seasons come and go,
Let hair turn white as winter snow;
Beneath it all, as years go by,
The child within still wonders why.
