All the shadows of yesterday cannot remind
Me of your praise.
All this time that is flying by,
Are like little drops of memory. Justice is never done.
The tone is deeper than the eye. The words flash quickly,
Like lightning.
I have taken the steps to inner peace.
What tales we weave of anything. The shop is going
Back to basics.
A fly jumps to the wall. We are
all
Saner for having being here, at least that’s what I told
My grandfather one cold day back in April. The tender
Hands of the clock keep telling time, weaving in and
out.
I thought the evolution of praise was more than just
A bitter dose of medicine; that the hand of the
clock
Will wind up; that everything will go back to
normal;
Maybe not today, maybe not any day, but some day,
Just like I told him over and over again that
nothing
Is ever wasted.
Every day counts.
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