In Populus Hotel, old Lewis dines, A philatelist, where each stamp aligns, Marking decades gone by with tender grace, On his seventy-sixth year, time's gentle embrace. In France's warm glow, past whispers unfold, Every letter, a story, every postmark, gold. He sits by the window, the evening is still, Reflecting on journeys, and dreams to fulfill. As candles flicker with a soft, muted glow, The years dance like footprints on fresh-fallen snow. Here's to Lewis, and the stamps that he keeps, In the heart of the hotel, where memory sleeps.