Time is wasted in what we seek,
we wish to find it when we’re weak.
For when we’re young an age we crave,
and seem to rush into the grave.
For age is simple just a number,
and undue pressure is what we’re under.
We seem to seek the age we dream,
And that age flies by or so it seems.
For every day we look for tomorrow,
But time is something you can not borrow.
