Wrong Time
Timing is a strange thing
It can be corrupt, either good or bad
In my case, I think it is the latter.
I was born in 1946, the wrong time frame
Not a good year, not even for wine.
How I think, the way I feel,
doesn’t fit with those around me.
I remember someone telling my mother
I should have been left on a kibbutz
That I was a wild one, needing space around me
As I grew, I felt the truth of those words.
As a child, I would run for miles
Trying to catch a butterfly
Forgetting about time.
I feel the same today
I would like to set the world on fire
Only I don’t have a box of matches.
Maybe it is time to calm down
Find something to still the wild spirit within.
At my age, there isn’t much I haven’t tried
Apart from a pilgrimage
In the hope of finding Shangrila
before it is too late…
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