A year, you think, a lot of time:
All humans age, a baby walks.
But when you hear the final chime –
Much like the clock of which one talks,
Which signals when your days are up –
A light goes out, you say goodbye,
And to your breast you want to cup
The ringing clock which made time fly.
Three sixty-five, with each day numbered,
And yet they pass with no remorse,
And each one just as well-encumbered
By life, as pure as ever was.
Which leads you to a situation
Of untamed comfort: found; at ease,
A scarcity of meditation.
Don’t think things through, attempt to freeze
In frames a lifestyle sonorific,
Which wasn’t just a holiday –
Ticks for travels quite prolific.
It constituted day-to-day
Life, which I would quite easily,
Have let last longer no complaint.
But obligation made me flee
And caused a flood without restraint,
Of tears, of cheers, of declarations
Of friendship, love and life-long ties.
Despite our fervent supplications,
Time carries on; away it flies…