Questions

(Here is a random poem i wrote a while ago)


All the days are figures;
years are figures moving slow.
The first hand slips
and the second is forgotten,
moments falls to a pause
and breaths are held,
like a marksmen with a cross-hair
poised on a fraction of a life.
To save it is a question of conscience.
To take it is a question of pride.
The question's not of Ego
but a fragile state of mind.


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