A Mote in Time


Memoirs lost to the Annuals of time
In mausoleum chambers spines that bind
Words to pulses fastened with twine
Tugging at heartstrings in throes sublime

While dust motes float to a melodious chime
Silent notes on shelves begrimed
Hearty tomes nestled betwixt a nobody’s rhyme
And the weightier shift of a paradigm

Does life merit if only ever discounted
Significance count if never surmounted
Legacies lost that never amounted
the fame of a name forever recounted


if the stars indeed appear small from here;

How insignificant we to them?”


. “Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door. His name, as I ought to have told you before, Is really Asparagus. That’s such a fuss to pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.  His coat’s very shabby, he’s thin as a rake, And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake. Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats —But no longer a terror to mice or to rats. For he isn’t the Cat that he was in his prime; Though his name was quite famous, he says, in his time. And whenever he joins his friends at their club (which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub) He loves to regale them, if someone else pays, With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days. For he once was a Star of the highest degree —He has acted with Irving, he’s acted with Tree. And he likes to relate his success on the Halls, Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls. But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell, Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.” –Author: T.S. Eliot


2 thoughts on “A Mote in Time”

    1. Hi Shadab. That line touched me too! Not my own, recall I read it in a book and it came to mind as I was finishing up the poem- not sure who to attribute it too so simply used in ‘quotation’. Best wishes to you as well.


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