Noon’s sun and full moon take their turn,
Guiding mankind through nights and days,
Leading both the true and the con,
And, pass life on, now and always.
Above wonders of art and craft,
And the fame of war and triumph,
Time would move on to tell at last,
The tales of how each season morph.
How long, then? we may never tell,
But, time is what we all share,
The plane on which some rose and fell,
The same that deifies men who dare.
Each season comes and goes as well,
Whether nectar, gall, or sour lime,
Only time, Time alone shall tell,
The triumph of time over time.
___________
Vittorio_Topaz
YOU ARE READING
THE BLUE
Poetry...just words, with more meaning than length can tell, just like the heart. We call them poems, but I tag it, 'the blue'...
