Let me pick the pen,
And make a plea.
Give me the power -
To strip the futurity.
The present as it is,
Makes me utterly queasy!
As my myopia forbears me,
From the beauty I could see.
Take me to the pastures,
Greener than a grove of trees.
Though I am filled with hope,
Ought to vindicate the belief...
Oh, and a vote of thanks
For the bygone glories.
Alas, past is not the besought -
Dwelling of yours truly.
PS: When the wish is yielded,
I'd probably re-iterate this plea -
As 'then' would've become 'now',
We'd be back to where we started, you see!
