posted 09 Jun 2012, 10:39
The 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.
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.