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