I ran down the slopes of the sand dunes 

slipping into arms of Time.

Time, the jealous lover who neither lets live nor die.

The red robes of passion ill fitting , made by an inept tailor,

can no longer give the warmthThe seven horses

needed to go down the slope

into the valley of sleep.

Time holds me green and dying,

some day to wake up again

on the fern tree frozen 

atop the hill.

Long shadows speak

of  the sun 

riding behind

chasing the sunset hill.

The seven horses are impatient. The chariot 

looks smaller as the horizon widens 

to take the sun in.

There something beyond 

the words can speak

Ignorance spreads around like a quilt.

Time, the jealous lover,

unrelenting till the end

will suddenly stop and 

pull me close and

I will sleep, a dreamless sleep.