PONOTF

Pressing

The past flows like elder wine
which plucked cannot wither on the vine
the days pass out of mind
scatter to the winds of time

So it goes and the current
spins away every moment
So this life is gone

The fates for which we are the foil
are twists against which we rail
The prize for which we toil
Is glimpsed through the tattered veil

So it goes and the current
spins away every moment
So this life is gone