The Saviour

 

When I think about the past,

Time’s load overcast

Rumbling clouds stretching vast,

So many beautiful things died; now aghast

Me remember them as alive for the last,

Alas, but life is so fast;

So many beauties annihilated in the merciless blast.

 

At each step a graveyard,

Present’s efforts fought hard;

Like versified truth from some bard;

Then coffin cradled, which once flowered

And whom this hasty runner favoured,

Now when time hath devoured,

Me prepare its next food; step as forward.

 

How impermanent, transient is life!

So many full flowers cuts time’s knife,

Still at each futuristic step we arrive

At something where newborns thrive,

And for more and more we strive,

Alas but, sacrificial presents only for the past’s survive,

And future’s tiny, trivial, momentous drive.

 

Are those graved beautiful flowers dead?

Whom no eye would ever read,

No! Seeds they are which time had

Furrowed along a path by someone who bravely lead,

Bloom they will again afore some eyes sad,

Whose present-past coexist and future dead,

My graved beauties then'll relive afore that bent head.

 

His senses lying rusting,

Still something in the dust goes bursting;

Swelling to Himalayan husting,

While illusion’s death hissing;

Dying before newborn rising

Above father’s head, where Gods watch praising.