Time Is Our Enemy
Seasons pass by while I still.
It is neither the zephyr, blowing shrill,
That gives me the thrill.
Nor the coldness of a winter chill,
Which makes me ill.
It is the time; with a relentless will,
That breezes through my window sill.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Time Is Our Enemy by Baris Bavkir )
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