Below the quiet evening air,
A layer of talk grew into a conversation,
That spurned the entire world, and then the universe,
Shredding in its path all that it laid its convoluted words upon.
And after that, it continued down the soft asbestos path,
Treading quietly on previous versions which begged to be restored.
They lay broken and enchanted by the present,
While their unfinished selves withdrew into the basking glory
Of the past- hard and chaffed, yet more gentle than skin.
Words of the previous times rode on their backs,
Humming and hovering around their eager ears,
Satisfying what they liked - for they were satisfied when they heard what they desired.
And cruelly they spoke among themselves,
As-if all of time had bundled itself up for this one moment,
Where it could explode into stillness and bring change.
Yes, time is our hero - our only hero,
Among mortals and peevish newspaper men,
Who walk from their homes thinking of desire,
And go home to compulsion.
Time is our only prophet- who changes the world endlessly.
Every movement and there is infinite change.
Change, change and everything in between,
Simply another movement of time.
We must bow before time, for without it,
We will be stuck in a bland moment in history.