ink

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
Were every blade of grass a quill,
Were the world of parchment made,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor would the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.

Someone will ask later, sometimes
searching for a name, his own or someone's else's
why I neglected his sadness or his love...

But I didn't have enough time or ink for everyone.

Or maybe it was the strain of the city, of time
the cold heart of the clocks...