The Tragedy of Time

The tragedy of time

Is not the relationships that loosen its hold and fade away,

Nor the aging bricks; skin and cells, of this temple that houses us.

It is not in the sounding of echoless screams of loss and loneliness 

Nor the bidding of inevitable farewells.

It is not in the hope that is slashed,

Nor the joy that is forced.

It is not the calendar riddled with death anniversaries

As against reunion dates. 

It is not the rise from ashes of equivocation,

Or the terrifying paradigm shifts.

It is not the loss of language between generations

Nor the relentless rise of worlds, strange, indifferent and technoid.

It is the fact that 

we are the battleground for this warfare. 

We are

The abode, the semicolon,

The foil, the eternity,

The gasp between birth and death

The ones forced,

To survive, to outlive, to live.

We are 

The tragedy of time