Time is the ultimate healer,
Of wounds deep and grievous,
Soaks the tears to bring them afresh,
A thing mazy round, braided coiled,
Without beginning or an end.

An incredible huge cycling wheel,
To which small cabins are fastened,
With the thin brittle rope of fate,
Moves on without rest or break,
Waits for none when is left behind.

Who knows when the cord breaks,
And who comes toppling down;
But it is painful to see one detached,
Hurling down deep headlong,
From the culminating heights.

It is invisible, always shocks man,
It has secret hands to fight back,
Undermines the cunning plans,
Only can be conquered with the deeds good.

A book wherein sketches are drawn and erased,
Its days, nights, months and years,
Are pages and chapters of rise and fall.
What it is? Beyond the mortal mind,
I keep silence so ask you to obey,
Lest we should confound it in confusion,
With Omnipotent entity of God.

by Muhammad Shanazar

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