Time has a wisdom you cannot touch
Nor brush aside, like cobwebs, from your face.
It knows both past and future,
and so sees more cleanly
that which, in your lonesome heart,
cannot be predicted, nor conceived.
Banging your heart about in regret
unknowing, of the fate that comes
to make your cup runneth over.
Focus instead on inward polishing
so you shine smartly,
when destiny finds its place
and you within it.
Make ready your soul for that which comes
to make your heart glad,
for that which made it pain,
in the here and now you detest.