I once met a man like Father Time

who always kept a smile in his eye.

He travelled the world for memories and

kept nothing for himself but words.

With just me and him, and the constant night above us

he told me about the places he'd travelled to.

He told me that he'd never climbed a mountain or sailed the sea,

but he'd described roads of tar and earth alike.

He'd never learned a language outside his own,

but he'd spoken with the strangest people in the world.

He said, "It's not the language that we don't understand;

people are people, where ever you go.

We living, breathing humans know nothing of ourselves

and even less of everyone else."

His words struck me as sad at the time, but he spoke them with a smile,

as though observing the endearing flaws of a child.

He said, "Our meaning is hidden,

wrapped in rhythm and tone,

drenched in the blood of our wounds.

We speak through our hearts to convey our emotions,

but our words keep getting in the way."

Back then I was young.

I had hope and belief, so I could pretend to understand his words.

But I ignored his heart, and so I forgot his meaning,

and now Father Time has gone away.