Time devours without malice—
that is its ruthlessness.
Even malice is attached
to feeling, to motion.
Time is stone-cold.
Stones that spark fire
at a point of geometry.
It takes youth, names, empires,
even memory,
and never pauses to ask why—
for asking is a thing,
and time is not a thing.
Time is zero in disguise.
Innocent in its cruelty.
A cold atom,
its nucleus warmer than sunlight
in the everlasting fire
of Zarathustra.
Time devours,
but kindness and love
do not belong to its teeth.
They do not age as bodies do,
or as mediocrity erodes the eternal.
A single act of mercy
can outlive centuries.
A love once real
does not expire—
it echoes.
Time moves forward.
Love moves through.
Time is an angle—
what a radius does to a circle.
That is why ancient tenderness,
inherent in love,
can still break us open,
show us hidden connections:
chords through the core.
Why a gesture made once
can remain unfinished forever,
ending its horizon
only at its own end—
the everlasting point.
Why kindness feels
older than history
and younger than breath.
