Now you can’t remember
what day it is
Or if this is just a dream
Tis a consummation
devoutly to be wished.
And you wish
to go home now,
to be scattered
in the meadow
with the leaves.
These years, the five
and ninety, I wonder
if they seem like just
a few weeks at the lake
when we were small.
Who are these people
in the room,
saying words you cannot
hear, giving you pills,
cleaning you up?
Where is everyone?
When will the war be over?
Who is this child?
For in that sleep,
what dreams may come?