The Eternal Clock
Who do I ask?
When I burn up like a shooting star
And fall on the hard ground with a thud
Will someone ask, “Who was the man?”
Those who read these poems today
Will they remember me tomorrow?
When I’m a just a memory and no more?
Maybe, my name, yes the name alone
Lingers in their mind like a dry flower in a book.
Maybe, some do recall a rainbow that spread
Over their horizon when they read my poems.
It’s still possible that some keen minds
May ask sardonically, “Who was this man
Digging potable water wells on the paths he traversed
For the foot-weary thirsty wayfarers following him?
Sheer folly is this thinking!
My better self admonishes me forcefully.
There’s no truck between fame and renown
Till the last sand grain falls
Fame is but a matter of a second on the eternal clock.
– A poem from If Winter Comes