Time can be buried,
In the wrinkles of my mother.
There are days when I hid it in her smile
it radiated the shawl of her sun,
and covered my pain as ash.
I can remember how her hug was a medallion
wielded with honesty, trust and her wits.

When those days of the guiding moon came,
time will become a heathen to the heart,
as I will feel her absence and her missing incense,
the one that entwined our souls
as I become her son.
I told my neighbor, time can be buried,
in the innermost cave of a man’s heart.
Nursing a disease called hate
waiting for a tear to break its gate.
When time happens like a tree
it will shade the deeds that grew,
the ones that were little,
the one bought by memory
and those created by mother.
Do not bury your time says the preacher
but live it as it lives
love it as it lives.
For only when you root your eyes
will everything slow its pace
so you see time
For what it is.

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