Time

Our time on earth is much too short,

The years we’re given are far too few.

We race through time without a thought,

Too little time, too much to do.

There’s never time to take the time,

To fill the measure of our day.

No time for this, no time for that,

No time to stop or rest or play.

This fleeting marker we call time,

We cannot see, or catch, or loan.

We can’t lose what’s not ours to keep,

Nor can we save what we don’t own.

We make time for a given task,

Yet time itself cannot be made.

We cannot get back time that’s past,

In the endless march of time’s parade.

Time often drags, or seems to fly,

It doesn’t stop, it’s never still.

It can’t speed up and won’t slow down,

It bends us to unyielding will.

When our brief space in time is gone,

And death has got us in his thrall,

We curse time, then we beg for more,

But time ignores our mournful call.

Time grips with unforgiving hands,

And in an instant, lets us go.

But when and where our time will end,

Is something we’re not meant to know.

For time eternal won’t look back,

It knows no pity for beast nor man.

Time has no life, yet knows not death,

It does not feel or think or plan.

For life’s a circle, so they say,

The ending comes back to the start.

But time’s long journey is straight, and true,

And that’s where time and man must part.

© John Greenwood 2007