Time, thou befriend not,
Perched on thy wings,
Thou moveth on,
Sparing no moment for thought,
Pacing through our short-lived joys,
Limping in our pain,
Masking the future,
Inching us closer to death.
Don't hold a grouse beyond our span,
Nor tease the living-dead,
For what have thou to earn,
From the vanquished soul,
When thou art but a tool of the divine.
Forgive the past,
Grace some respite, a moment or two,
To undo whatever can be done,
In our moments of grief,
And in turn, set thyself free.
time..too swift for those who rejoice and too slow for those who morn...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a profound poem with pesonification and a and rich imagery....my 'Hurry up it's time' resembles this one...