Twenty-four hours in a day:
Not one, not two, but twenty-four.
Take away sleep hours and eating hours,
And there should still be enough hours left
For me to do the things
I have, I want, I must, I dream to do.
Yet no matter how well I plan my day,
No matter what careful goals I set,
The hours slip slide away,
Softly, quietly, like black cats in the night,
So many things to do,
Never enough time.
I write every day, I read, I work, I play
Yet I never seem to do enough:
There’s never enough time.
The hours always slip slide away,
On sunny days, on rainy ones,
All through autumn, all through winter,
During workdays, during weekends, during holidays,
Always, without cease, the hours, the slippery hours,
Slip slide away.
I think tomorrow I will plan my day in such a way
That I will have nothing, nothing to do.
I will forget work, forget play,
Hide all clocks from sight,
Wake up late,
Lie in bed all day.
I will not think, I will not plan, I will not daydream,
I will stare at the window,
At whatever picture nature will paint for me,
And breathe the hours away,
All twenty-four of them,
Because I want to find out
Whether the hours will slip slide away then
As they do every day,
Or whether they will drag on
Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly,
In which case I will conclude
That there are enough hours in a day,
That they are not slip-sliding away,
That the problem is
I rush time out of my life,
I work too hard,
I try to do too many things.