"Time goes by," you say,
"heedless of the weather: be it sunshine
or
rain;
Nay, it knows no delay."
"And time is the thorn of a rose
that pricks the most delicate part of you,
Demanding you to rush, hurry, and lose."
So you look at me, with the eyes
of a gravedigger, knowing
no stopping of the blossom that is to bloom.
"Not even the greatest and the mightiest can pass by my
epitaph without knowing
that oneday too they'll serve a tomb."
--
In the House of Remaining Snow,
We dance and sing, make merry while the days
are long.
--
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