What is time?
And why is it a limiting factor,
Of our existence?
Would we still think of it as it is?
Something fixed.
As man attempted to control it!
What is time?
If eternity is timeless?
Why do humans claim to have little of it,
To spare.
When it is everywhere.
And seems to be there uncaring who shares it.
What is this thing manmade called time?
And assigned to aging.
To declare those who have passed their prime.
Even though fine wine is better aged!
And what phase are those,
Who are upstaged by deep climbs?
'What does that have to do with time...
And/or aging? '
I'm just trying to find sense in any of it!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Time, as it is, has no limit...but each one of us has been assigned a 'fraction' time, we occupying a fraction space...mathematically- dt/ds...every thing depends on how good the 'function' fares with in its prescribed limit...good inquisitive write...10