Upon its back, we ride,
into the books of history,
all of this, it takes in stride,
for it, there is no mystery.
Slithering through the sands of time,
but of it retaining no memory,
simply drawing an unstoppable line,
continuing on to infinity.

****** wars and droughts and famine,
like the hands of a clock continues,
we like to stop and examine,
but it goes on as its muscles stretch and sinew.
Political changes and new regimes,
trapped in the past as the times fuze,
through all the ****** and the schemes
all of this it simply eschews.

Is this the worm of fate,
or simply that of time,
we can love or hate,
be just or enjoy crime.
No matter what we choose,
we ride it anyway,
to the future, we ooze,
there is no escape.