She looked at her wagon decrepit and old;
can it make one trip down yonder road
with a load much lighter than ever before
and a soul that knows it will soon have to die?
The wagon was silent; it had spoken before
of one last, one last, and another last one
and now closed eyes to think (maybe pray)
could it be, could it be, the final last one.
It looked at the pasture beyond its foresight
and thought maybe, yes, it could live out its days
relaxing, reclining, and remembering
all the trips back and forth and round about.
Maybe, just maybe, time is its friend
to allow four wheels to sink into the sand
and bring in peace previously denied
the one that travelled through experiences.
Suspicious of time; friend or foe do you think
but wagons and gypsies know time is just time
so easily susceptible to a change of mind
on its relentless march to demise -
if there such a thing be.