The Eternal Clock

Who do I ask?

When I burn up like a shooting star

And fall on the hard ground with a thud

Will someone ask, “Who was the man?”

Those who read these poems today

Will they remember me tomorrow?

When I’m a just a memory and no more?

Maybe, my name, yes the name alone

Lingers in their mind like a dry flower in a book.

Maybe, some do recall a rainbow that spread

Over their horizon when they read my poems.

It’s still possible that some keen minds

May ask sardonically, “Who was this man

Digging potable water wells on the paths he traversed

For the foot-weary thirsty wayfarers following him?

Sheer folly is this thinking!

My better self admonishes me forcefully.

There’s no truck between fame and renown

Till the last sand grain falls

Fame is but a matter of a second on the eternal clock.