Waiting Poem by Henry Tong

When time becomes an indefinite measure,
I hold every heart beat firm, for I know
When flower blooms fresh buds and dies,
I remember its eternal fragrance.

Though tender, paltry, weak,
us with time, in vain competing;
I never, ever lose the faith
if something is worth waiting.

Born tired waiting, am I, in an endless phase,
until all lies become truth to rely upon-
If promises wither on a temperamental face,
and tragedy incurs, and smiles forgone-
Love is the castaway angel hovering above.

If then, I say, time is treasure,
let there be endurance and love assured
against the odds of tumult and storm,
against the curse of decaying norm,
outliving a life that we'd implore-

Thus waiting is forgiven, in joy or woe.