Time is unending in your hands, my Master
and there is none to count your minutes
as days and nights pass and ages blossom
and fade like flowers even as you wait.
Centuries follow each other perfecting a small
wild flower and with us we have no time to lose
and having no time we must scramble and crawl
for a chance as we are too poor to be late.
It is time that goes by as I give it to every man
critically claiming it, while your altar is empty
of offerings to the last, and at the end of the day I rush
in fear your gate will be shut but to find yet there is time.
Adopted from Tagore’s Gitanjali, poem 82
Henry Victor 31.10.2012
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