The Music of Time

Time is the greatest, yet cruelest composer, It has already written its own melody on us. Our wrinkles and scars are its notes, Our skin is its sheet, And our body is its instrument. Although, you're so far, far away, I can still hear your music Crystal-clearly. It resonates gently, swirls whisperly Through ages and lands. Your melody is consist of the sweetest And most enchanted harmonic minor scale. The tempo is between andante and largo, Yet the dynamics is neither pianissimo, Nor mezzo-forte; just perfect. Strumming those golden strings Which evoke those soft, vibrating sounds, Your music is calling me from the distance Embracingly and overwhelmingly; Never let me go. I know so well your music; by heart. It's echoing and reverberating in my mind. So, if I ever lost all of my senses, I would say I do not need any of them; Just the two of my hands For making music on The most precious instrument of Time. Before everything vanishes.