Each instant of the present
Hangs like a leaf
Upon the infinite tree
That is the future.

And just like leaves in autumn
Each in its turn
Becomes an instant of past:
Now falls from the tree

Whose roots absorb the essence
Of fallen past,
Feeding on earlier times
To nourish new growth.

The cycle thus continues:
Old times return
Though in a different guise.
Our stories repeat.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this.

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