Someone said, Time is a tree,
undivided it is firm,
it has life of its own, it's one true history,
a history of who we will be, are and had been...
Every second tickles by,
invisible, unknowing,
so withers, this life of mine,
as every mortal, living.
Life, it's flowing downward, always,
so like a river, consistently it flows
beyond the whirls of life and death,
sometimes fast, sometimes slow.
Yet, blessed i feel, though knowing not why,
a wonder, is it b'cause this enigmatic life,
red, so alive flows so within these veins,
with memories my own, recurring always.
With surging emotions of remembrance,
such! miracle of life, an imperfect joy,
I grieve within myself for human losses,
and rejoice still; how far humanity has arrived...