Sitting in a quiet room,
No other sound around,
Except for a ticking clock.
Listen to that ticking;
A regular old-time rhythm…
Ticking, ticking, but without a tock.
Sun Stones and megaliths,
Hourglasses and calendars,
Sundials and the minute hand;
Water-driven, pendulums or springs,
Battery, electric and atomic…
All timely inventions of man.
The sun, moon and stars;
Navigational zones;
So, too, UTC, GPS, and GMT.
But sitting within an interval…
A meditative quietude…
All concepts of time eluding me.
Hypnosis of my moments whir…
(Tick… tick… louder and louder)
A metronome of time.
The clock is measuring still,
But only till the energy runs down,
Either that of it… or mine.
May 31,2019
(Two-hundredth birthday of Walt Whitman)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A wonderful tribute to Walt Whitman.