Oh no,
Into what groove
Of temporal flux
Did we stumble?
What slope of gradients
Must have tilted
So unashamedly
For us to turn
So ashlike?
It must not have been
The world that made
Us old,
We ourselves
Have pulled these things
To age, these things
That never were ancient
In the first place
Not even in times
When souls of beings
Were shaping, burning vapors
In the wombs
Of Holy Mothers.