Time

What cup is there more bitter than Time?
All life’s beauty, lain in the dust;
all tomorrow’s hopes, forgotten.
To our lips we raise a vinegar’d tang,
where but yesterday, there was wine.

Trust not the deceit of color or song.
To the eyes, a wondrous thing;
to the ears, a paean of heaven.
Already the Puppeteer readies his box,
where he hides them all before long.

Yet, in the lover’s heart lies a secret.
A knowledge unknown to tongues;
a truth hidden even from minds.
That in the heart of pain lies a door,
one step beyond grief and regret:

That if we had not loved, we should not hurt;
that if we’d been not warm, we would not shiver.
All bitterness we taste is in memory of sweet;
all longing we feel, a proof of union.

For this terrible pain we call our life,
is knowledge that the soul knows of better.

It is written:
  “Verily, we are from God,
  and to Him shall we return.”