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.