Unwritten Story Would time exist if you were not born? Would that person you disdained and then kissed rue the passage of the year as bereft of spring, where jasmine scents in an arbor and vanished words pierce the way to the heart in a line of seconds and minutes, yet yawns into elastic moments of day? This tick-tock thing is but a man-made idea to chart the world, a sand measurement that drains down an hourglass toward an end. Know timelessness from the Ganga's sacred water. A hand smooths a growing bulge of skin, a smile forms on the ones who have chosen to initiate you into this stream of life. Soon the pendulum will swing your unwritten story. Annie Bien

If you've any comment on this poem, Annie Bien would be pleased to hear from you.