In the twilight of seventy-six years, Lewis stands as a dance in ever-slow grace, An architect of time, in a tai chi embrace, His breath a whisper the francophile hears. A collector of dreams, philatelist's delight, Stamps telling tales of faraway lands, Fingers tracing the lines where history stands, In the Populus Hotel, under soft evening light. Here each moment's design, rich and complete, A mosaic of memories laid at his feet.