Sculpting Out of Time

Questions die by the water.
Anwers drop to the surging flow.
The pieces of thoughts only come to ungather,
they promise a structure, then off they blow.

Make better traps, practice your sight.
One is to come, other to take. And all this happens by the river
of which thousands of poems and songs and fine philosophers fight
making a bridge here, a dam there, and if I may say so, only ruin your liver.

On a clear moment I might get it right, and realize that I am in that flow.
Then I might be calm enough to set right questions,
or maybe just observe, feel, arrange.
Maybe that usual cry for things and thoughts and all that goes through your hands like sand is nonsense, yes it is, it all must go,
all must go to the flow of time.

Questions die by the flow of air, by time, by timelessness,
by the bells that chime.
Never play twice, never say again, and still always the same time, wrong time.
Time is an act, action something else than a reaction,
a dream fraction of passed and becoming,
awakening a change from sleep to sleep.

"On those stepping into rivers the same, other and other waters flow."
(Herakleitos)