Time

There's nowhere to run
I know what has marked
The hair with white
Redrawn the face
Like a caricaturist,
The footsteps sound nearer
The stranger's hands
Are passing closer
As they grope for the quarry,
The old songs sound dearer
Because they are younger
Belonging to the days
Of the early mouche
The stirrings of love
The first triumphs
With endless possibilities
When anything could have been,
Not like today
When a tomorrow
Not unlike yesterday
Sits sheepishly with you,
As the stranger
Knocks on the next door