History of Sorts

Time drips like honey from a spoon,
Then races past a silver moon—
One breath, a blink, a silent year,
Another stretched in quiet fear.

A moment laughs, then takes its leave,
The next one lingers, makes you grieve.
A summer gone in children’s cheers,
A winter carved from frozen tears.

It waits in line, then leaps ahead,
It fills the heart, it strikes with dread.
The morning’s slow, the evening flies,
A cradle rocks, a coffin lies.

We beg it pause, it will not stay,
We curse it when it crawls away.
It’s kind and cruel, both swift and wide—
A river with no chosen tide.

So fast it dances, slow it walks,
It hides in silence, roars in talks.
Yet in its balance, truth is shown:
We’re always leaving, always home.