The passing of time

The face of dreams stares from my looking-glass,
Premature, innocent; an indistinct black mass.
How much time has since then passed?
How many times can one turn the hourglass?
Childish laughter rings, in the hallways of my mind,
How many days have passed since that time?

The more I search, the less I find,
The more I live, the less I can rewind.

Though I have fought for a place to stand,
Wept in weakness, clinging to life’s hand,
I have yet no place to be my own;
No safe haven, no resting place, where tears may flow.

Because all rushes away,
All fades with the passing of days;
No gentle love remains,
Even the brightest flower wanes;
Darkness always overcomes light,
In beauty, nothing ever stays bright;
No tree forever stands,
And all seashells turn to sand.

And like dying leaves in autumn,
The traces of death creep up life’s columns,
And all men, with silence, fall;
All men bend their heads to death’s call;
With bitter mirth we hope for life,
But no sweet fruit spares our strife;
And in the end, like teardrops in the sea,
We are left to time’s will, immune to our plea.