Or from whom.
The neighbours' kids, who wake me
with the dntz! dntz! dntz! of a bounced ball.
They don't have the concept of time.
I gloat a little. I mourn
that day they'll see living is Pyrrhic.
A prison, in itself withheld.
When they ask me about you,
I don't tell them about having to
strain the heart for no good reason
again. I don't talk about
wisdom won (as if one ever could).
No, just as well, I don't quite see
what they mean when they say that
time flees,