Time
A poem
My time is not my weather, Even if my weather has time Tides and seasons. My time is something else. It doesn't dwell in states of mind. Doesn’t suffer divisions, Discord, indecisions, Illusions, disillusions. My time has no wars nor storms. No natural disasters or foreign bodies falling to Earth. It is rather a quiet walk. It runs its course, infinite, until it ends. And who says course, Says discourse. My time, yes, my time Follows all laws accordingly, Gravity, exact rule, discipline. My time, yes, my time, A time with time, Must have time, It’s time.
Remember time is just a construct in our minds; however, it is also a measure of movement and not of meaning.
It’s the fate of a Portuguese, haha. This poem first came to me as a kind of semantic trick—and perhaps as an inner response—because in Portuguese (the language it was originally written in), the word tempo means both "time" and "weather." We always ask “Como é que está o tempo?” which literally means “How’s the time?” simply because we don’t have a separate word for "weather," like in English. But I completely agree with you.