Poetry

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.


The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T.S. Eliot- mon ami, mon cœur

Yet despite the statistical unlikelihood of it all, here we are.

A wonderful fragment to share. Thank you.

54 $degen