I’ve torn a leaf from my diary,
And used it to make a list,
Of things I’ve to do on the morrow,
Of things that are not to be missed.
But what of the page that was torn out?
When I get there, what will be gone?
On that day I could have been writing,
My opus, my story, my song.
And now I must leave a page wanting,
And never know what might have been,
I must skip to the next page, hoping,
I won’t miss what remains unseen.