Poetry

Without human control it moves on
and soon a day, a night, a week is gone
while no human science can make it pause;
or has capacity to turn time to stone.
 
By its own accord it ebbs and it flows,
if by divine providence it goes
through the ages of man into aeons
moving through times of happiness and woes.
 
Yet there may come a final end to it
when in the Master’s hand its passing fit,
when with Godly power He deems it to stop
and seconds going forward bit by bit
 
will in earthly dimension be no more,
when the planet turns to be like before.