My daily calendar has just a few pages left
That, like leaves on an autumn tree,
Will fall, and be consigned
To the past, and to memory.
It is we who mark the flowing fabric of Time
With patterns that we call days, months, years.
One such pattern is being completed
On the loom of Eternity.
Under these patterns, these motifs
Runs the lasting warp and weft
Of Time itself...moving smoothly, inexorably
One cannot predict how the patterns
Soon to come, will be shaped.
What colours will they carry?
The red of bloodshed? The white of peace?
The yellow of illness? The blue of sadness?
We do not know...
We flow on, too,
Along with the fabric of Time.