The progenitors are the past of the future,
but coming and going the children come after them,
and what comes after trails
and what trails is behind.
The progenitors are the past and our pasts are behind:
both, offsprings and forebears trails and drags themselves.
A hen after her chicks, the future hopefully before us on one hand. A duck, before her’s, opening paths to the future on the other... the future behind led daringly:
hope and bravery tight-fisted in the hands of a newborn.
This is a circle in revolution, the cycle of time,
before and now coming after themselves chasing behinds.
Time recycles all... We, all, are a tentative future.
Time is the secret.
The future is equestrian advancing the wheels of the past.
That tomorrow happens time has to concede today to memory.
We are forever in time the secret of hope and longing
so we conceive a future we would live long enough to see, dreams to actualize, for the concept future is the thing most infinite, Infinite a name we call God, an eternity.
Birth and rebirth, hope is a child that assures us
there is no end to the line, that it goes on endlessly,
and this is no phobia for endings, for humanity is a suffering,
but a native universal fear for the retributive aftermath of suicide. When there is hope there is time, time is future,
an hopeless infinity for the suicide, the future is God we must in a hope beyond reason reach in heaven. Heaven is joy in
quintessence. Eternity is a perpetual remembrance,
memory of good and of evil. Memories are the markings on time, lingering on tomorrow. Eternity is time haunted...
that time would outdate all except the bequests
worthy of the morrow. Can time obsolete wickedness?
God endures. And what for? Maybe that, all-inclusive,
memory would become the triumph of good.
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