The Turning of the Hands

In the flow of lonely rivers
as they whisper to the sea,
the sighs of seasons past
keep you ever close to me

and though the way be weary
when roads run to twists and bends,
in the pale glow of moonlight
we will meet when journey ends.

If time moves much too slowly,
then dreams move much too fast
and in the turning of the hands,
there we shall meet at last.