Time

Is it an ossified stone, continuously chiseled by the fragmented rhythms of labor?

Or, is it a limpid liquid, woven into the fabric of life?

A tired old woman,

With a soul engraved on the heavy granites of time,

Set out to answer this question.

Enwrapped in silence, she stood under the melting moon,

As the loam of light drenched her in the fragrant flakes of earth.

Drifting through the satiny clouds of mist,

She arrived at vast fields of mud-minted newness,

Feeling the lightness of dewy grasses.

From the powders of serenity,

She made a boat

To traverse the rivers of time.

The old woman dipped her hand in the pearled water

And found threads of time,

Throbbing with fluidity.

Her search for the true meaning of time reached its completion,

As her soul was released from the heaviness of dead stones,

Free to meander through the valleys of peace and rest.