magicpotions1211Super User
The Passing of Timeposted 09 Jun 2012, 10:39The time is a villain, people say. It's like a bucket full of memories, the old at the bottom and the fresh on the top, they keep messing with each others up as time goes by, one pulling the others like a string made of beads, while we touch bead by bead, the comeout is a smile or a tear, maybe a bit of anger or desapointement, some regret, perhaps. Nevertheless it is a certainty of life: we all have time; what we do with it marks the path we go thru.  The 17th-century English poet Robert Herrick wrote something beautiful about making the most of the the time we have. To the Virgins, to make much of Time Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer, But being spent, the worse, and worst, Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. Time, has weight and meaning and many shapes, or no shape at all, but the first thing that we remember when we think about time is it's more usual shape: a clock. The clock Time pulled a string of my hair it was a white rose at the end fresh with tender petals sliped from my hands and became a river the rapid stream pulled a string from my dress it was a bird at the end rainbow collered feathers but it flown away nothing but a trace of smoke in the sky the wind blow a waft of air and I fly away pulled by a white string it was from a cloud it had anothers person hand at the end I grab the hand it had a heart at the end the heart was made of a white rose a bird with collered feathers had the shape of a cloud fluttering with the wind but there was a storm and the hand sliped away losted the heart with the collered feathers with the shape of a white cloud the rose had a torn that get tangled in a string of my hair reach for it but there were no more strings to pull no more feathers, no more collered clouds lied down to rest on the spring of water but it was to late to float my skin was my cloud and my dress was my long hair time wad flooded my bed it was the day to sleep way and, as I look around, hundreds of beautiful strings with unimaginable colours was floating very slowly along my side like a maiden eyes going to sleep poem by D. |
Advertising (remove)
|
Top Comments
-
Also, I love the astrological clock from Prague, it is so interesting and complex, I know it for years, but never saw it in night time... it is so gorgeous. Thank you. :)
All Comments
-
Also, I love the astrological clock from Prague, it is so interesting and complex, I know it for years, but never saw it in night time... it is so gorgeous. Thank you. :)