Witless children wet their eyes in rage
At the stalling of things, the crawling of
Time. Their impotence fuel to an imprudent
Fire. Freedom, they say, is spirits and smoke,
Music and new dress.
Freedom, they say, is years away, far off
And too far. They wail for time to flit past,
Transient as the wisdom they cling to.
Unaware or without care, the sun is
Brightest before noon.
In throes no less fierce, the old codgers cry.
Cry for a time and a life gone by.
Cry for the age when no Winter, no grave
Patiently waited to allay the old pains
And take them away.
Youth, they say, was paramount. A tear down
A wrinkled face holds joyous laughter,
The sounds of summers back, way back, way past,
Way back past the weathers of age. And time-
O, time moves too fast.
Be still! Stay that yearning, my old, my young.
Stay your wistful watches in bitter corners
Of the night. That covetous need to steal
The seasons, trick the ticks and tocks of clocks.
Time assents no greed.
Rejoice! Do the goslings grieve at their plight?
At the comfort of strong and downy watchmen,
The easy and gentle waters? Do they
moan, moan to suffer age? Theirs is not to
Count the airy days.
Delight! The tufted owl is mute. Content
In his lot, his wisdom and shrewd. Esteem
Lifts his head, his repute a plush luxury
Won in hard contest with the threads of fate.
Perched in regal seat.
Hurrah! Do the dead rattle chains at their
Sullen and shadowed fate? Of course they do!
The clawing and dark is nothing in light
Of the phases above. The ages and
Labors of changeable life.
-c. c. Condry