Time - Claude Convers
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Time

 

Time is a wrinkle on my face.

The other day
I saw that those thin lines
had invaded the corners of my eyes
where the skin is soft and tender,
where the door to the soul is closer.

 

I thought of how many came from laughter
and found how much I needed to cry.

What more, what else has time brought me?

A full body dancing in the wind,
moving more quietly as the years go by
yet, always bringing wonders
deeper with each day lived,
wonders of how time
can fly without wings,
can pass without trying,
can change… doing nothing.

 

My great-grandfather was a barber and watchmaker
in a French corner of Switzerland,
he tried to capture time
with brushes, blades and balance wheels.
I remember, as a little girl,
taking him for a walk
around the living room table,
time had already robbed his youth
and soon would rob his life,
leaving his precious hands
looking like marzipan
or so I thought at the time.

When I think of that day I remember
that time was now,
that time is now,
that the riverbeds have ripened,
that it is time to let the river flow.