Time

I wrote Time on New Year’s Eve 1983. I had just turned 16. The poem reflects on the nature of time, precious yet transient. Now, 40 years down the line, one realises that time is indeed limited, and one is increasingly confronted with one’s own mortality. I invite you to also read Christmas ’84, which was written in a more hopeful spirit. Happy New Year to all my readers – may 2023 be a great year for all of us!  

Listen to the revellers

Heralding

The New Year

Serenading Time

In her glittering robes –

Yet little do they know

That she will be back

In robes of mourning black.

For she is like a woman

Of all faces and moods.

She waits for none

And all succumb

To her ominous call.

She is unconquerable

She slips out of hand.

She bewitches

And yet she betrays.

All pay homage

To her –

Lay offerings

Of Beauty and Life

At her altar.

Yet she is generous

And grants

Wisdom and Experience –

She heals all wounds

Silently.

She is no harlot

She cannot be bought.

And those who squander her

Must pay the price

She is eternal

Desirable and precious –

And men are only mice.

Vanita Shukla Hork, 1983

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