Every hour has its story,
Of a hundred days
that flow into it like a river.
A composition of elements
that will never intersect again,
But go tumbling downstream–
to what ends we cannot know.
Some to spin the millwheel,
some to flood the fields,
And we cannot tell
if they are wicked,
or industrious,
in the manner they are spent.
For a virtuous hour,
may as likely turn sour,
as one concupiscent,
reaps sweetly of scattered seeds
on barren and borrowed time.