Time

 

Our time on earth is much too short,

The years weíre given are far too few.

We race through time without a thought,

Too little time, too much to do.

 

Thereís 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 canít lose whatís not ours to keep,

Nor can we save what we donít own.

 

We make time for a given task,

Yet time itself cannot be made.

We cannot get back time thatís past,

In the endless march of timeís parade.

 

Time often drags, or seems to fly,

It doesnít stop, itís never still.

It canít speed up and wonít 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 weíre not meant to know.

 

For time eternal wonít 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 lifeís a circle, so they say,

The ending comes back to the start.

But timeís long journey is straight, and true,

And thatís where time and man must part.

 

 

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† ©John Greenwood†† 2007