The hands of the clock
are not accidental—
we fill the dotted lines of minutes
with kind imaginings.
The hands of the clock
have roots,
rooted deep
in the fingers of our being.
With you, I was alone—
the solitude
of all solitudes.
Without you,
I learned
I had never been alone.
At last, I found togetherness
within solitude;
oneness
within estrangement;
stillness
amid the restless crowd of men;
order
within the trembling disorder—
the gears that grind
and pass
so gently
through one another.
I found retreat
amid the press of countless things;
silence
in the void between all sounds;
presence
along the corridors
of so many masks;
and calm—
in the trembling balance
of all these waves.
The hands of the clock
are not accidental—
they turn, as we turn;
their circles mirror ours.
Each second, a seed;
each hour, a resurrection;
each day, a remembrance
of what never began
and shall never end.
For even Time itself
bows to Rhythm—
and Rhythm
to the Pulse
of the Unchanging.
