Time has awfully shrivelled and quickened its pace –
whole months of now aren’t a former day’s worth, –
and I know for certain that the cause of this race
is the acceleration of the spinning of Earth.

I can feel it with all of my cumbersome torse,
and I stoop more and more and look down, not around.
Age has nothing to do with it – it’s with the force
centrifugal I struggle to remain on the ground.

I’m bending as if I were really old
and I’ve taken to sitting in quiet alone.
Any careless movement can loosen my hold
of this world, and I’ll be carried off it and gone.

I can’t heed anything, I’m so obsessed
with the spinning and stunned by its growing rate;
and it looks like I’ll have to, in search of some rest,
go under the turf, under its blessed weight.

Safely fastened, I’ll hear the tunes of the grass;
all the babel of life will be mine to conceive;
and the ages, like clouds, will slowly pass
over me and my world which I won’t ever leave.