As we grow old, we lose our precious wings.
The birds of heaven, boy, aren’t what they seem:
We’re tethered to the earth – we think; they dream
This ground, my child, was fashioned out of stone
While men, like birds, are made of fragile bone.
Maybe at night, young men dream of flying.
I can’t remember: my dreams are of dying.
Live while you can; it isn’t meant to last.
Get in the car; I’ll teach you to drive fast.