Upon the fleeting
hourglass I read
the cadences of poets,

steering road
that guide my path
as I walk on tiptoe

into their hallowed groves.
The milestone imprints of time:
the ennobling hubris of their craft,

cast as cowries
by hands honed
by a venerate god;

the songs of itinerant birds,
travelling ahead of me
and the heedless wind

rushing ahead to the
sentinel of my pivot where
poets colour life's  spring

for me to bite
from the ripest fruit
of our awaited harvest

is the insistence
of time lost,
I now want back. 


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