Can there ever be less of the future
Than there is more of the past
A riddle balanced on a lily-pad
The first perfection of time
Before it started to know
Its own thoughts and feelings
The clock-body and the running down
To a shadow of its former self
And yet time is the only place
Eternity so far has found
Where it can come into its own
And feel the breeze on its face
And not have to worry about forever
And just plunge into it all
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