Song of an ageing linguist

The ideas of my youth sleep fitfully.

I sense them – slightly behind my right shoulder.

Rarely do they trouble me now,

For they have become washed out.

Ignored for years, they have lost their vibrancy.

Once green and fresh, full of life and promise,

They are now barely perceived, colourless reminders

Of the furious battle they once waged with my indolent soul.

But as I approach my old age, I feel them stir.

Increasingly restless, they will soon erupt again into life,

For once again I sense that my

Colourless green ideas sleep furiously.

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