On the threshold of being sixty
I cannot but feel a weariness
A sense of uselessness, irrelevance
Where I matter but to a few
And to them, too, matter but little
Not many hearts will skip a beat
If I go missing from the earth
And what I leave behind in writing
The few that end up reading them
Will wonder what I tried to say
Only the material of my body
Will be recycling on earth, on and on.
Know Thyself 