The silken hour slips away with a whisper,
at once soft and cutting,
like a ghost of treasure;
a homeless man’s memory of wealth.
Already the fabric of time slides
again through fingers numb with
the caducity of life, unable to
grasp its only true riches.
Time cannot be trapped,
cannot be stoppered in a bottle
like an epochal elixir
to fix all the world’s ills.
Indeed, it is only those who
have discovered the ancient rhythm
of joy and surrender
who are the masters of time.
For them its silken fabric is a sail filled with wind.