hours | a poem in my pocket

Challenge at CDHK to “distill” the following poem by Tagore:

Time is endless in thy hands, my lord [LORD].
There is none to count thy minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.
Thou knowest how to wait.

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose,
and having no time we must scramble for a chance.
We are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by
while I give it to every querulous man who claims it,
and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut;
but I find that yet there is time.

(see my “distillation” below in tanka form)

“Endless Time”

trace curved flow of hours

marked by celestial bodies

— our minutes’ limits —

seek face of eternal LORD

above / beyond track of time

a poem in my pocket