The time is dripping slowly,
As dew falls from webs,
In the now-distant winter mornings,
When I would run to my place,
My haven,
My safety,
As fast as I could,
But still the time dripped slowly,
As the words I heard,
In the now-silent whispers of spring breeze,
When I would stop and stare,
At beauty,
At water,
That ran as fast as it could,
And yet the time will drip slowly,
As the emptiness of summer days,
In the too-long months of not knowing,
When I will lose myself,
Lose hope,
Lose sanity,
Waiting for those drips of long-lost time to fall.