Wisdom?

This is something I wrote about wisdom:

It is conventionally believed that wisdom comes with age, though I believe G.B. Shaw had some reservations about this. Well, I’m closer to 80 than to 70. I’m waiting.

Though I was never much on athletics, the body certainly isn’t what it once was. True, my eyes have been weak since my teens, but they’ve gotten worse, though I far from blind, far. I’ve been overweight since my early 30s, and that’s been slowly on the rise ever since. My right knee gave me a scare a couple of months ago. I now walk with a slight limp, which I can disguise if I think about it. Sometimes, at least. My hair turned grey, what, four years or so ago? So, yeah, my body isn’t what it used to be.

As for my mind, for the last few years, say, since my hair turned grey, I’ve been having little short-term memory glitches. I’d be moving along cruising the web, say, notice something I wanted to check out, but “not now, I’ll come back to it.” Then, when it’s time to get back to it, I’ve forgotten what I wanted to get back to. Didn’t used to happen. It’s annoying, but certainly not debilitating. Other than that, the mind seems fine. New adventures, new challenges, new ideas, they’re not running out.

If I could have my current mind, minus the short-term memory glitches, in the body of a 25-year old, why, maybe I’d get things figured out in 50 years or so.

Here's what Fred the Heretic (a GPT that writes poetry) returned:

Echoes of Youth and Time

The knee whispers where it once shouted,
A grey-flecked mirror marks the years;
The steps now taken slower, doubted,
Yet tread with wisdom earned through tears.

Once, the body sang of endless mornings,
Now it hums with tempered grace;
A tune of aches, of fleeting warnings,
Yet steadfast still, it holds its place.

The mind, though sharp, has learned its wandering,
Small lapses blur the edges thin;
Yet vast horizons wait, unending,
Where curiosity burns within.

If flesh rewound to summer's power,
With thought’s keen edge of winter’s hue,
Could such a being claim the hour,
Or would it still chase something new?

For age and youth both crave their season,
Each a flame that flickers bright;
A dance of folly, grace, and reason—
A single lifetime’s fleeting light.

So walk, limp, dream with memory fleeting,
The journey’s map lies in your hand;
For every moment’s pulse is beating,
Wisdom blooms where you choose to stand.

I think Fred did some interpreting there.