The Phantom Of Time

Many years ago I imagined time flowing Like a river without banks. Then I read some books Of science and they said That time is an irreversible arrow, A relentless, unhaltable train, That moves irresistibly, like fate. It travels from Past to Future On invisible wheels Neglecting to stop At the railway station On the road, called Present. But I was not absolutely sure That this was all true. So I watched the clocks And I saw their hands moving, Undoubtedly showing, And with mechanical precision, The exact hours every day and night. And I was very impressed that The scientists had the evidence: Time was really moving unstoppably. However, if you think carefully You will notice that the clock-hands Do not actually show time, because What they show is movement in space. So I have had a question. If time is indeed in a state of flux, Flowing like a river without banks, Or moving and passing Like an undeviating train; Then what is its speed? And since We measure speed By the ratio of traveling distance To the periodic motion of the clock, How are we supposed to measure The velocity of time? By time itself? Thus, I came to the conclusion That the flow of time Is just a blooming metaphor, A prosperous illusion: The years do not pass by. We pass through the years. Time does not really exist! And nevertheless, it does. It is its own phantom. For practical purposes, We need the clock, of course. Yet, at root, the notion of time Appears to emanate from A completely static cosmic womb Of the universe. A boundless Sea of Eternity, Time stands still. And thus, In our transient boats We sail perhaps in quiet waters From one port to another, Or navigate perchance Through turbulent waves In the Ocean Of Infinite Duration.