It is not the feature that gives

A place its name—

Not the trees, not the land,

Not its air, nor the man.

  But it is the time

That counts in our mind.


When time can fly,

A train can dive

Under the swarming waves

That put man into graves.


Time can never fly—

  It only creeps

Under the feet

Of men, slimily.

—of eternal suffering, it is

something that never change, no

matter how slow

they slink.



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