The Harp of Time
The clock is playing a witching
harp,
With every stroke it feeds the
spell,
Ensorcelled people march,
As offerings for time to
consume ,
If that path should be the fate,
Hold my hand before you
haste,
Step aside from the crowd,
And the enchanting sound,
Infuse in me as a cure,
I infuse in you for sure,
To bite off a chunk of time,
For ourselves to rhyme,
And if I were but soul in dust,
Scattered in a desert land,
Be my rain and resuscitate,
The you in me to fascinate,
The marching crowd with a
timeless blossom,
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