It is time that is apiece on a mantle piece shards of time knotted in sanguinary mythic places, that is history winding into infinite spaces, the bard has no time for reflection I have found time in the runaway ghetto or, in the monastery or in the prayer of hope crushed in wheels of death Now is the runaway time the clock ticking in hubris the violent become pacific the pacific incognito shining luminous lights of war scarred oppression. Blood, let there be may we may we Pray. Die. The luminous lights fade Blood is slowly, taking over man or animal. annulled by timelessness genuflection of time a poem stares into the future.