Years by Jon Anderson

Years

 

Sometimes in weariness I stop.

Because I’ve been lucky

I think the future must be plain.

Over the trees the stars are quite small.

 

My friends talk quietly

& we have all come to the same things.

Now if I die, I will

Inherit awhile their similar bodies.

 

Now if I listen

Someone is telling a story.

The characters met.

They enchanted each other by speech.

 

Though the stories they lived

Were not the same,

Many were distracted into love,

Slept, & woke alone, awhile serene.