A habit of this thing I've made,
Gliding aloft the wings of time,
Stopping by each winding bend,
Making it all mine, this time.

Each jagged end I hold close,
Having been sheared by those,
Merciless in their wake they've been,
Yet now make me truly whole.

With my arms held lustily out,
I boldly command an embrace,
For today they hold me tender,
Dearest friends, insurmountable foes.

But soon I shall turn away,
One day at some weary bay,
Laying down my thistle crown,
Perched proudly upon my mane.

The flavor of memories linger,
And I shall return once again,
For time's always been a circle,
Now, looping around my grave.

- Rema Nair