‘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 in April, you look around,

And some of the old regulars are gone.

Generations and chapters soon rush by.

War, for all its swagger, is no different:

You fight foes; you fight time. But time passes.