You were potential but unknown
long ago and far, far away,
and then your interval came as
just an infinitesimal against the
ceaseless moving universe itself.

Formed you were on this blue
speck on a black-doted sky
and you could wonder about the
universe and time, finding a life
somehow in this narrow slice of
what the universe deigned to grant.

Then, time itself circles you with
its uncompromising call that your
time of wonder, of many feelings
and thoughts, of loves and hates,
successes and failures, and lofty plans,
is only this, is only this thin slice:
this interval between nothing and
nothing more, and the days of
wine and roses, sweetness and the
gall of breathing must come to an end.