Peine forte et dure

When time rhymes we call it space,

A run of changes that seem

Sufficiently similar

To be one thing, one building,

One landscape, one character,

Only, of course, slightly changed.

Nothing slight about that change.

Gradually it presses us,

While we resist, refusing

To admit nothing's a thing,

Laboring to our last breath,

Wheezing out, "more weight, more weight."

There never was a timeless

Instant, never was a thing.