How can I sing?Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.I empty myself of my life and my life remains.

These wrinkles are nothingThese gray hairs are nothing,This stomach which sagswith old food, these bruisedand swollen ankles, my darkening brain,they are nothing.I am the same boymy mother used to kiss.

Will the same day ever come back, and with it Our amazement at having been in it, or will only a dark haze Spread at the back of the mind, erasing events, one after The other, so brief they may have been lost to begin with?

Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,And what is invisible stays that way.

Nobody sees it happening, but the architecture of our timeIs becoming the architecture of the next time.

Each moment is a place you've never been.