Not the mirror ages our reflection
but the other faces that we see
looking at us
Not the calendar changes our season
but the other voices that we hear
speaking to us
Not the memory troubles our silence
but the other sleepers whom we meet
dreaming of us
Not our living suffers the violence
but the other beings whom we feel
dying in us
ALL THIS, BEFORE
I raced, I rushed, I ran,
to catch the empty hand of time,
before the wind, the blowing wind—
this breathless gift.
I willed, I worked, I wept,
to melt the frozen face of time,
before the sun, the burning sun—
this frenzied bone.
I drank, I danced, I dared,
to tempt the stony foot of time,
before the rain, the driving rain—
this raptured flame.
I leaped, I laughed, I loved,
to ease the burdened heart of time,
before the dust, the settling dust—
this flesh, this blood.