tagore

Time is endless in your hands, my infinite Being.
There is none to count your minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.
You know how to wait.
Your centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for our chances.
We are too poor to be late.
And so it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and your altar is empty of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day, I hasten in fear lest your gate be shut;
But I find that yet there is time.