Time

Time is like a flowing river that winds its way to sea
Its current is measured in ancient rhythms quite slow
But its sense of purpose is unerring as it slips effortless
There is neither joy nor despair in its ebb and flow

There is a place under a spreading banyan tree
Which is located at a nostalgic spot on its banks
A broad jetty is set at that point for a ferry pier
And people congregate there in daily swelling ranks

I have sat at a point not far from the jostling crowd
Witnessing the passing throng of varied visage and hue
Their pace is frenetic as they approach the crossing
But the river quietens them with its showering dew

She doesnt distinguish between the sinner and saint
But gladly escorts them on her back to their goal
And when the dance finally ends she embraces them
Drawing a final curtain on the drama enacted ashore