The runner breaks the morning air,
A sudden storm of breath and stride,
With eyes locked on a distant square,
And forward motion as their guide.
They chase the clock, they race the sun,
No time to glance at what is near,
For in the world of things undone,
To pause is something close to fear.
I step aside and let them pass,
A blurring ghost of hurried force,
Then turn my eyes back to the grass,
And wander on my quiet course.
My boots move slow upon the stone,
I feel the cool wind on my skin,
Content to walk this path alone,
And let the morning settle in.
Two lives collide upon the street,
Two different ways to use the day.
One measures time by racing feet,
One watches shadows fade away.
The runner seeks a finish line,
A future prize they hope to keep,
While in this slow arrest of time,
I find my harvest while asleep.
Geraakt door deze tekst? Maak het hartje rood of deel de woorden met je vrienden.
Zo geef je mee een stem aan de woorden van deze schrijver.