Little more than a chip flown off from the solid stone of eternity,
A fragment, this, melted and flowing, running, never still:
Time, the so-fast river we all run in, racing – for us – to its end;
But it, too, will reach conclusion, cease also, for that is the nature of frantic motion,
It runs to its end, ineluctably.
And then will return all its ways and things to solidity, totality, to what it always is.
And that is why my present choices and decisions are one with true predestination,
Since all is truly set beyond my present choosing
(At times, in my fancy, I glimpse, peer, beyond this life, at all that always was, always is;
a tiny opening.
Our inability, though, to recall aught before this life is one with blindness to that beyond; veiling.
How might the temporal the eternal scan?)
Eternally real though, the fragment’s source (the only reality) for all that.