time and tide

i look upon a bird called time,
feeble voiced and deathly pale,
resting from war, weary, weak,
yet mute endeavour to tell its tale...

who stole the wind from its wings,
what beast devoured its breath?
i wonder while the bird called time,
plays daunting games with death.

it sings a song and lifts a feather,
battered by rain and storm,
then wraps its life within its wings,
its shroud to keep it warm.