Bare Hands And The True Timepiece Poem by Noen Muti

In the tapestry of life, woven with hands bare,
A dance between birth and death, beyond compare.
With empty palms, we enter this grand stage,
No treasures clutched, no scripted page.

In the theater of existence, our roles unfold,
From the first gasp of air, to stories yet untold.
No watch in hand can halt the ticking clock,
Each heartbeat resonates, a rhythm to unlock.

What is the true timepiece, a guide through the years?
Not gears and springs, but the echoes of tears.
In the symphony of moments, the cadence of breath,
An ephemeral dance with life and with death.

The true timekeeper, not strapped to the wrist,
But etched in our deeds, in the moments we've kissed.
For in the tapestry, each thread plays a part,
No watch can measure the beat of the heart.

So, who is the true keeper of time's fleeting art?
Not a ticking device, but the compassionate heart.
In the silence between breaths, in the spaces we share,
The authentic timepiece, the one who truly cares.