Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. To each they offer gifts after his will, Bread, kingdoms, stars, or sky that holds them all. I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp, Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turned and departed silent. I, too late, Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
There was a time when time was real -- when a traveler might head out for a destination with every expectation that he would arrive to such a place as was lodged in his memory...
Only to find a desolate place -- overgrown and vacant -- cold ash long blown from the fires, intermixing with the soil.
If one's journey was long enough, one might wonder whether everything had been fine when one set out, and whether tragedy had struck and nature reclaimed during those long days on the trail.
