I rush through life. My world is whirling past.
I tell others the slippery cliche:
"The time will come. I'll stop and breathe at last."

I pause — for tenderness, a song, a cast
Of clouds. That donkey, Time, begins to bray.
I rush through life. My world goes whirling past.

I pause again — to find out what I've lost:
People, places, peace. I resolve and say,
"The time has come. I'll stop and breathe at last."

I'm late. I see that decades unfurled fast
For my parents, aging, half a world away.
I've rushed through life. Their world has whirled and passed.

I see irrecoverable years amassed
Upon their faces. Their eyes, ancient, gray.
Their time will come. They'll stop and breathe their last.

I tell them how I feel. They smile. With vast
Eternal hearts, they set me free and say,
"You rush through life! Your world is whirling past.
Our time has come. Our love will breathe and last."