To say I will not likely find
In the years ahead a being
That will appreciate my mind
Is to apply the prejudice of time.
In the present dwells a certain sadness,
The sense that joy will die in future darkness.
But if, from the far side of the earth,
Your life I fail to note,
Then, from a hundred years hence,
You remain just as remote.
Therein lies the trap of time,
Our minds prisoners of the present.
From day to day though I may fly,
Our meeting – miles, years away –
Stays locked beyond this moment.
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