The dying of the dream

Rage, rage, rage against the dying of the dream!
What you saw when you were young
in old age is still in reach.

Remember how the sky,
or the stars,
would look with virgin wings?

Why is it as we grow
we always stifle what can be?

I wish I were a man
but my mind was lined with leaves,
I'd lose them every fall
to grow anew around the spring.

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