Poetry

  Hearing the hum of the motorcycle,
The bike sped up, hoping to win the race.
  The biker smiled past the bicycle.
Defeated, he looked on with dusty face.
  The boy could never peddle fast enough-
His little leg's no match for the machine.
  Women or children, delicate or rough;
Wealthy or poor; amiable or mean;
  We're racing time the moment we are born.
When in the glow of youth, we feel ahead,
  But, passing by, Time smiles and blows the horn:
‘Almost Evening-‘Twill soon be time for bed.'
  In hours, I'll bid farewell to my twenties,
  Thank God my bed was made when in my teens.