See, they move past, linked wrist to wrist with time,

Wise man and fool, straggler and good recruit,

Enlisted in the enigma’s exploration.

They cannot read its purpose, only guess

There is no turning back, no deviation,

Nor resting place on the enormous road.

There are three tales of time. The first one says

The traveller in his mind created it

That there might be a theme, a great flawed story

To interrupt the unbearable trance of peace,

And for that gain time was a trifling fee.

The second holds that time was there already

Before we came, and that our opening eyes

Struck full upon it. This, they say, is why

We know the changing world, for all was there

In that first look, with no division.

The rest was Afterwards. The third tale says

That we were born into eternity,

The boundless garden, and our issuing thence

Was self-incarceration in a prison

Where we act out our wishes’ wild succession.

The crystal walls are scrawled with static signs,

But as we advance our towering shadows move

With our own motion, melting in multitude.

So we go forward linked with numberless shadow,

Invisible, inaudible close companion,

Dear friend and enemy in our flight from time.