"Movement in Space"
A
poem by George
Monta
Time, elusive arbiter of destiny,
Crucifies thought while parading through my conscience
A value to be conserved, to never waste:
"Keep the 'oil' bright and thus be wise
Imperfect One."
Time, concoction of demented measure seekers,
Show me the meanings of my urgent need to measure.
Why finite man, escaping to infinity,
Must count the measureless steps,
While spouting thoughtless thoughts,
Spouting scientific pratings with the assurance of
priests
Who mesmerize the simple and slay the wise.
Time must be the power of man to move,
And in the moving to perceive his motions
With their meanings:
Time, existence, the framework
Of a Timeless cosmos,
Motion, heat, a bird in frightened flight,
A half remembered primal Light,
The Child's dreams and then the Night.
Oh, Man of time-bound sense,
Release your grip
On Time's deceptive surety.
Relax your hurried pace; tomorrow surely comes.
'Tis' the watching makes you miss its slender hope.
Spring is tomorrow's other Life.
Awaken, bound off across the hills of dreams,
Back or fourth in the sea of Time,
Not counting clouds or clods,
Man is as God if he but opens half his strangled grip.
Love not time, it's not what it seems to be:
It simply sings its web into the meshes of man's mind
Who finally dies; Time's finale.
And then the Morning's light again.
Let go of Time. It authors not one word.
It measures not extent of good or bad,
Of God, or man.
It binds man's soul to food and rent,
It keeps the Nomad in his tent.
Let go of time, breathe deep
The Power freedom's birth must bring.
The Morning Star reflects
The Song that we must sing!
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