time explodes into tomorrow,
eternity and last night,
while now we slowly die,
dust drifting the heart's
ward:  the press of age is
deep and gets deeper.

history's branch:  broken,
moist with tears, is rotted
in the core of all we do.
a line of kings is marching
as proletariat and pawn.
fear and ingnorance preside.

we claim to understand what
we scarcely see exists,
who can then name it?
what light exists that we
have made or hill that man
has toppled to the sea?

the past does not answer,
no wisdom will it pass on
to us whose Now falls fell.
about our heads.