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The Brazen Gate

Whence the grief that crossed your face
As the purpling of the clouds beheld the setting of the sun?
What fanged desire thwarted marks the sum
Of heartfelt pangs? Of furrows in the face
Whose brow had shown before no trace
Of the etchings of the plow?
What awful strait's beset you?
What twist of fate's upset you
In your race to penetrate
The brazen gate
That opens up your mind?

Fear not the hand of time
As it shapes the clay and molds it
To the changing of your mind,
As it shakes your mind and shows it
The changing of the times.
Hold the aging hand;
Clutch it to your breast
Lest you permeate the land
With your ashes of unrest.
If you must burden time with grief,
Be brief.

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