stuck in an hourglass, wishing to become a thing of moss,
vanish deep into the forest; a thing of mist,
evaporate into thin air.
only by becoming time can you slow it down,
by letting the woods swallow you whole
can you become a local legend.
but we rent the air we breathe,
we rent the space we take up;
we’re stuck in an hourglass, grain by grain,
like a fleeting autumn day with a strong desire
to arrest time, fading away.
time heals but it also flows,
often it even hurts like the ladder scrapping the apple tree.
Török J. Sándor 