‘Time passes,’ said the man at our table.

‘People want something new.’ I guess he’s right.

It's the prevailing theory round here.

‘The same old faces,’ opined another;

‘You know, Zelensky. Always wants money.’

And ‘here’ is anywhere, maybe everywhere.

Time passes. All of us know that feeling:

You turn a new page in a calendar

Or put away Christmas decorations.

At cricket...

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This was our time:

A time of fat,

A time of plenty,

Of gluttony, sucked straight from the vat,

And pots of gold in packs of twenty.

A time of excess,

Of haunting, taunting, flaunting,

Of stretching the zeroes to impress;

A time of unrepentant, rabid lust,

A time of cities reduced to dust.

A time of the swine, the plundered mine,

Of hate and anger drunk on wine;

...

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