There is more time than
anything else.
Time is eternal.
So I ask you,
why am I always short of time?
Never have enough,
to do what I have to do.
Forever is in everything,
swallowing up the minutes
faster than time can make them.
And if there is so much time,
why is my life denied what it needs
to perfect itself?
To write every poem inside me,
like seeds ready to be born.
To take care of everything
that needs my care,
and a little charity besides.
And the sheer wastefulness of time,
when I am too tired to go on,
it runs through my fingers
like sand,
like water,
mocking my efforts to cup it,
going on to a sea
that doesn’t need more time.
In frustration I call out,
stop!
I need more time.
Let me finish the love affair
of my life.
Let me find the meaning
of all my sorrows.
Let me weave a tapestry
from the dangling strands of joy,
and never have regrets,
because there wasn’t enough time
to love,
to dance,
to fill the hunger in a soul
struggling,
to open all the doors
wanting to be opened