Forecoloured is the distance road,
And set about the tone,
Crossed paths amongst the other things;
Books passed and left alone.
Those hands we thought were in control,
Are puppets’ with their string,
Yet powder pots and melancholy
Fight against that thing
Called time, it is, and without doubt
Hard ruler of us all,
But still we seem to snatch the reins,
And be driven in to fool.
Now, how can I, and you, and me
Step back from that divine?
Can’t tip the hand, or whisper in;
Can’t tell time to change its mind.
Forecoloured is the future light,
And so we may all say:
”Don’t trust it all, besides we find
Our destiny our way.”
Yet in that secret forward place,
A plot will spring about,
And how then can we turn and say
Time doesn’t sort it out?