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.

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