The Present gives birth to the Past,
Once it's present, it's already past,
The fleeting moments are not,
For us to grasp and hold,
And what was done and told,
A memory that will not last,
Shadowed stories of our past.
We can't control Time,
Even if we wish,
Life is a Mocking Bird,
Served as a strange dish,
Garnished with Time,
With a bitter twist,
And a green taste of lime
Or maybe,
Just Nature's crime?
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