Poem — An Collective Invocation to The Mother and The Master #2

How many suns wouldst thou O time
Swallow whole by yawning jaws of night,
Bartering a mar-faced moon’s token sight
In lieu of that glorious globe wholesome.

What hunger gnaws for suns of east
That labouring rise over crimson sky
For the crisp peak of a noon’s high,
Ablaze with glory of a flaming crest!

What lure layest thou O time at dusk,
What trap behind a horizon line
So slender thin like a blade fine
That slices all light to a perfect dark!

Gloat not O time, thou petty schemer,
For He comes soon, the one infinite avarice,
Who is loathe to shed a strand of grace
Even to me whom He has sworn to foster!

Truck with me O time for better days
I’ll speak of thee to Her of merciful ways.