Around the world turns with hurried paces,

Sped by such presently urgent intent,

Metered by spinning hands upon faces,

Feeble or frantic, to varied extent.

 

That world spins about my adopted seat,

Dictated by ticking, blurred by the rush,

While I simply watch, no weight on my feet,

My eyes show no stress, my face feels no flush.

 

External, I hear not each ticking beat

Nor feel the focus each tempo imparts

Whilst I idle at our pre-arranged meet

Timed by no ticking, except that of hearts.

 

Let earth turn according to its own time,

I will wait ‘till your hand again holds mine.