Those that have gone have gone for good,
those to come keep coming;
yet in between,
how swift is the shift,
in such a rush?
When I get up in the morning,
the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs.
The sun has feet,
look, he is treading on,
lightly and furtively;
and I am caught,
blankly, in his revolution.
Thus -
The day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands,
wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal,
and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as I reflect in silence.
I can feel his haste now,
so I reach out my hands to hold him back,
but he keeps flowing past out my withholding hands.
In the evening,
as I lie in bed,
he strides over my body,
glides past my feet,
in his agile way.
The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again,
one whole day has gone.
I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh.