There is a map,
which I cannot read,
I trace paths upon unknown lands,
foreign names, and broken lines,
hoping to reach,
somewhere, some place in time.
The compass gently spins,
And the hourglass bleeds.
The map changes a million hands,
A million eyes gaze,
This way and that,
The paths I draw, interlink,
Traces criss-cross and overlap,
Inks run into each other,
And separate by centuries.
Time rests among the folds,
creases shut out history,
between visibles and invisibles
some distances decrease.
The compass gently spins,
And the hourglass bleeds.
This map remains before me,
still hidden and revealed.