Today’s date is made of numbers

Though not traced to a true Day 1

Did time begin with the first Big Bang?

Or the lighting of our sun?

Did our own clocks start with a birthday?

Or nine months before in the womb?

While Earth spins and marks days passing

Tick-tock, toward the tomb

Every second left us is precious

Wanting neither good nor ill

A fragment of a lifetime

To be bent to serve one’s will