Work in Progress - Promenade

I

Time is the clock tower striking twelve,
Time is the silence, echoing after the bell;
Time is the footsteps through the halls,
Time is the sun dial, moving of the shadow.
History is a string of Time
Of one random moment holding onto another
By a thin thread of Memory;
Experience is the knotting
And the unknotting of these moments:
Love ties these knots, but also
Cuts the threads with the scissors of Melancholy…

But what was cut off floats onto the ground,
Like a kite with its string snapped,
Slowly and hauntingly drifts to the ground.
It is when the kite crashing that you realize:
The kite was in the air before;
The kite can still soar high,
So why don’t I fly it again?

There are fragments of moments
Which simply does not fit the puzzle.
The forgotten is a ghost, and only
Echoes through time,
Echoes in time,
Echoes with time,
Echoes as time.