Thursday, November 5, 2009
Days slip by, just like grains of sand through our open fingers
Some shine like gold, in a trick of the light,
Others pass, grey, unaccounted, nevertheless adding to the pile.
Time. Time as everybody seems to agree is a river,
A river going into an ocean.
My river is now wide, but not so wide
As for one to lose sight of its margins - that may happen,
But only on foggy days, dense with mist.
Most mornings my river is bright,
Blessed by sunlight, myriads of stars playing on its waters
Happy fish chase them gladly.
I should be glad too, following this river
slipping slowly into the big ocean of forgetfulness.