The years of my life quickly fly,

they are in such a hurry.

They do not care, they do not worry

about the time I die.

Before I could say “knife”

the golden autumn has come.

Why are you in a hurry, my life?

The answer was quick sounds of a drum.

The years fly so promptly

as they are afraid to be late.

I beg my years: Please, wait!

I don’t want to be in a hurry,

I want to know and worry

about my future,

I want to admire the beauty of nature.

I am still young at heart,

I can still give a start to a new song.

I still have a wish to fly,

to watch the land from the sky.

I still have a lot of things to do:

to care of someone,

to show my love which is true.

I still believe in miracles,

in love which sparkles.

I don’t want to be in a hurry,

I have never counted my years that flew,

always tried to be true.

Stop! Please, time, stop! Wait!

Being in a hurry I hate.

I can still smile to the sun, to the rain…

I repeat again:

My years, my life! Don’t be in a hurry!

Don’t give me a reason to worry!

 

Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)