что наша жизнь заканчивается с приходом старости.
мне так до сих пор кажется, хотя умом понимаю, что это не так.
When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now,
will you still be senting me a Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
If I`d been out `till quarter to three, would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I`m sixty-four?
You`ll be older, too.
Aaah, and if you say the word, I could stay with you.
(c)