Time

At the speed of light
through the void of space
a girl in a frock
once sketched a cloud
of fleeting blue.
But in the weight of our busyness,
the machinery of daily life,
we failed to notice
spring’s trembling heart.
When sorrow comes,
when every horizon darkens,
the clouds themselves
begin to sweat.
Then I looked at you:
by the bend of the river,
wind unbridled,
you painted rain
upon your face and eyes.
Is time even there—
or is it gone?
The moment after arrives,
the moment before
vanishes forever,
leaving only the false syllable
we call reality.
Years passed,
calendars shed their pages.
To hold back time’s light-speed flow
is an impossible burden.
One day,
I sat thinking
of ancient times—
drifting in imagination
across ages.
What had it all been?
The pulse of love,
the drowning rival of tears—
were they only still frames,
two-dimensional images,
a single camera-shot
of eternal life,
where nowhere was written
the touch of your hand
by the riverbank?
Now, long after,
the reel has spun outward
into space.
The blue veins in your wrist
burn bright
above the IV tube.
Even now, I held your hand—
silent, without promise,
surrendering to
expressionless defeat.
Time itself
went on without hesitation.
And yet—
the same light of desire,
born of lifetimes,
returned and gathered
by the bed
of a dying soul.
In my body, too,
touch has diminished.
The weight of time
has slowed the pulse,
dimmed the fire.
And I remember—
that day,
time did not exist
for me to understand
your tears of joy.
Between that single moment
and the search for eternal life,
the delay has grown vast.
Your eyes now close,
half-lidded with fatigue.
From some distant nebula,
a star falls away—
who will notice its end?
Time rushes on
from moment to moment,
untiring, unbroken.