After That Our Past

The time is torn
when we were born
and after that our past.
The empty space
comes next to trace
and it must show at last.

Along our path
the simple math
is a matter of years.
It seems witty,
with a ditty,
to chant jingles in tears.

We hold our breath
to forestall death
as fear notice we send.
We lift the haze
and mend our ways
as we foresee the end.