The Phantom Of Time Poem by Paul Hartal

Many years ago
I imagined time flowing
Like a river without banks.

Then I read some books
Of science and they said
That time is an irreversible arrow,
A relentless, unhaltable train,
That moves irresistibly, like fate.

It travels from Past to Future
On invisible wheels
Neglecting to stop
At the railway station
On the road, called Present.

But I was not absolutely sure
That this was all true.
So I watched the clocks
And I saw their hands moving,
Undoubtedly showing,
And with mechanical precision,
The exact hours every day and night.

And I was very impressed that
The scientists had the evidence:
Time was really moving unstoppably.

However, if you think carefully
You will notice that the clock-hands
Do not actually show time, because
What they show is movement in space.

So I have had a question.
If time is indeed in a state of flux,
Flowing like a river without banks,
Or moving and passing
Like an undeviating train;
Then what is its speed?

And since
We measure speed
By the ratio of traveling distance
To the periodic motion of the clock,
How are we supposed to measure
The velocity of time?
By time itself?

Thus,
I came to the conclusion
That the flow of time
Is just a blooming metaphor,
A prosperous illusion:
The years do not pass by.
We pass through the years.

Time does not really exist!

And nevertheless, it does.
It is its own phantom.

For practical purposes,
We need the clock, of course.
Yet, at root, the notion of time
Appears to emanate from
A completely static cosmic womb
Of the universe.

A boundless Sea of Eternity,
Time stands still.

And thus,
In our transient boats
We sail perhaps in quiet waters
From one port to another,
Or navigate perchance
Through turbulent waves
In the Ocean
Of Infinite Duration.