I write the words, as they come to me.
From my mind they soon will be,
down on paper, written too hastily.
Why do my hands start to ache?
Is it because of my arthritic shake?
Old am I, like wood from the Sea
lying in the sand, alone, is me.
I write the words, as they come to me.
From my mind they soon will be,
down on paper, written too hastily.
Why do my hands start to ache?
Is it because of my arthritic shake?
Old am I, like wood from the Sea
lying in the sand, alone, is me.