(№6.1)

Time doesn't run nor does it move.

It also wouldn't do such things in a linear manner, much disagreeing with famous and incredibly humane believes, because instantly, if you thought to find ancient crusted relics, tales hit in stone in languages older than the discovery of the hidden side of the moon - the dark side lying always in shadows, never to be reached by the warm engulfing rays of ​the sun, shining hotter than a million ovens - you will be deceived for most of them have been eradicated, either by gullible, thick people living in the past time and destroying all things their brains cannot further comprehend on a more metaphorical, immaterial, spiritual plane, for they are mindless brutes who could not be intrigued by art, poetry, and music, the holy trinity of all honourable arts, only to be enjoyed and have taken a part in by those, who are not forced to be mortified by the emerging of sabre-toothed tigers from any rumbling, growling bush, skewering the humans with their great tusks. For only those can find happiness and fulfilment in art who are not afraid to be diminished any second, minding not exclusively survival, yet can appreciate life in its much richer, more vibrant quality.

Time apparently also destroys things, when really it's the environment, such as the sun, who had already been mentioned now twice in this ballad, oxygen perhaps the usual culprit or also water who had borne many issues for historic sympathisers of facsimile, desperately seeking to reconstruct the miserable lives their ancestors had to endure, had to be probed and probated, only to produce the following generations who out of my experience only mock their forthbringers by having their death and suffering once more exposed, letting them die a second time, disgracing their names in a myriad of unconventional ways along the verses. Some things should rest in peace and be forgotten, like an inept lampshade put aside in the attic prior to its death be found in a dumpster.

However, that's not even to be objected or asserting the contrary, only to make another point stead and firm to prove it;

Time doesn't do all or one of these things mentioned above, because it doesn't exist.

It's not a nature given constant, created at the mighty all-powerful uprising of everything, nor had the most divine their upper hand in power play for once, but it's simply a general way to measure how many sand grains can pass the elongated, narrow pathway of an hourglass and how many horses you can slaughter and how many plowings you can operate on a field of corn, before the grains had yet all connected with the glass bottom and you were to turn it once more, time running out before your mere eyes.

Some Time can also have been passed as you pridefully and matter-of-factly drove a neat and narrow pole into the sandy dry soil of your deserted home floor and watched the shadow of the sun travel at lengthy in a nearly three-quarter circle of the day, fascinated by the mere simplicity and your ability to count two and two together.

You claim now you can measure the given time by reading where the shadow of the cane is now on the crude scale, which you clumsily traced in the very compromising floor and are now expecting esteem and a shower of gold on your burned head from all the people around you though which will not understand your affect.

Science needs to measure the length of how long something does take Time to sprout and cultivate, no offence against that, but in other sense, Time is also not real.

Or at least not the apparent and all-obvious ellipse of time moving is all too clear and fixed as one might reckon.

It comes and goes in waves, unbound by the laws of the moon and definitely of no man binding its strings in certainty, as the waves are not made of water but are inexistent, a metaphor for reducing omni-complexity. And even the omnipresent gods, which experience it much differently than common mankind, are helpless.

Things don't happen in only one direction, one singular event, but every human in fact - differing from the ancient old creatures haunting your beds - had been born many times, under many circumstances and on many different places, which swapped one time from plan to plane, for perception to deception, crafting it impossible to keep track of everything that had happened very clearly to your eye, but to no one else's, hence it never did in fact display. The majority indicates the tone of the symphony for good, everything you perceive is fundamentally wrong, until proven exact by the ones who cannot have enough of Time, just because it had happened impervious to their eye, it shrouds in darkness, in utter negligence and untruth, leaving you having to adapt, for you to rummage in hoping grasping out the true core story and translate to gauge how many turns of an hourglass could fit in the span from dusk to dawn, whatever importance that must uphold or however difficult the surmounting of turbulence will enclose to be.

Especially targeted if you're so basely interwoven with the inner workings that you desperately need their presence to survive and see to another night, just how they need the sun, water, soil and favourable weather to grow crops, feed their cattle, feed themselves and their young. Every other organism doesn't live that much differently.

Interestingly, the only distinction they make between them and all creatures having a pumping heart is how conveniently most of them do eat their own kind and humans do not, most of them at least, to preserve the conservation of their beloved blood. A rather impracticable practice in times of famines and overpopulation.

Also, essential to mention is if you can be born many times, you can also die many times, perish due to one worser death than before, because some of these treacherous waves are lazy and are stalling, simultaneously enjoying your end be exploited infinitely many times, your grievance only furthermore increasing, you wait and wait for your end to happen any minute, but it won't because death once gone through, is very easy to cope: It's dying, that makes it hard, suffering and pushing and crying and bleeding towards a state of blissful oblivion, where everything means nothing and nothing can't even be comprehended by its servants, since the servants do not possess any mental capability, for their brains full of speeding electronic impulses, their window to the world has been bricked up forever, has died just like them, cut out, now for all their living blood and flesh to drown in sorrow regarding their loss.

There are very few forces, such as immortal illiterate gods who might trick this system of universal working, but with intrinsic restrictions to balance the scale evenly out, contradictorily staying reluctantly out of death's reach, yet being prohibited from some events mortals happily can participate in.

Some of them even wish to die because death is something of a salvation from forever burdening the earth with one's forced presence, skipping through event and event, missing the essential clues all lined neatly in a row .

Some of these events are meaningless for the fated outcome of the world, thus are deemed probable events: They might happen, even at different times or never at all, as they are simply unimportant or inconsequential to the rule of the world in its wholeness.

Others are essential and are usually coerced to transpire under the mercy of higher powers or these other creatures, so much different from the common man, who only has to abide by the law of death.

The universe in itself is of course set to be destroyed in future times, but not for a very long time, so it's unnecessary to focus on that, for now at least.

Naturally, in some instances, thanks to some probable events who grew and conveyed to be harmful events, destroying everything in a blazing, mighty fire, the universe already destructed oneself and the entire plane, portraying this collection of false branches to be imploded under the colourful spray of fusing atoms and ashes.

It's also fated how sometimes, to keep the tension rising and dropping much like the actions taking place in a Greek amphitheatrical play, the world must be close to destroy itself, and has yet to be saved again by specimens desperately trying not to be the puppet of the unknown puppeteer and playing exactly to their liking in fact, responding accurately to the hand that dealt, which they chose to despise.

Everyone is born with this willful need to survive to stay alive not only for self-protection or the forthbringing of more conspecifics, contributing to the perpetuation of a species existence, yet to save and protect the world, their home, their habitat from any kind of threat or harm, as their existence would be doomed by the ceasing of it, the other flapping and intrinsic corners and creases of any ecosystem.

Every more or less living creature is wired such this for this specific reason.

Clever universe, always there to nurture its inhabitants and programming them in response to protect their very nurturer to stay intact.

The war, that lingers on the corner in every word in between the lines, hiding in every paragraph and rising undeniably more and more upon the horizon, developing their unmistakably, yet off-limits promise negligeable for even the most stubborn creatures, would tip us all of and challenge each and every party to regard if their goals are worthy to be obtained, by the explosive numbers of men and allies to pay with their blood in the interest of two undying entities who only wish to rest once and for all.

A simple human girl was set and chiselled to be the trigger for an entire enumendo of fate's waves to collide and crash with the shores, to cause terrible, terrible events to enter the battlefield, the whole affair being written the same way the plot of betrayal and brotherly contest is written to amuse the people in many loves, battling for the fair hand of a noble lady and it almost operates to leave a slight disgusted and burning feelings when reading the prophecy who lets only one side win or neither: Betimes, the world works like this, wallowing in the dirty and pathetic way of mankind to embrace violence and fighting, as long as not being involved personally in battle, resembling more the vile lusts of authors then taking responsibility for clear pathways.

Maybe in majority, nothing really needs to happen and the world always finds other resources to achieve whatever questionable thing it wishes to accomplish now.

Perhaps coincidence found its lone little niche to survive the hazy planned structure of the world to sometimes even surprise the way things are supposed to happen.

The girl was first sought in the most peaceful, gradual painless way imaginable and fairly all alone decided to start the way of the world; A neck swiftly broken and it was over in the blink of an eye, a very humane and complying course to die. It makes sense that these events had never happened, for there was no suffering, no heartbreaking agony ready to rip your insides open and disfigure your every good will. No one will ever die without pain and shouldn't have lived in utter neutrality but in vibrant colours, held more in happiness or in distress is another matter.

If you haven't lived, you can't die.

The next contesting idea to manifest her death gone was much more suitable for the harsh and sorrowful truth of life, but it wasn't enough, because it also hasn't happened in reality.

The majority, the humans living without restriction but for how long they deserve, make the rules and write the book with their mostly confined ability to perceive events diffidently to their odd neighbours.

Winners write history, but only the ones who have cared enough to talk to the future through dusting and decaying books, through stone walls or clay, important or narcissistic enough to inform the after-world of their daunting legacy, their towering heritage.

Forgive me my bursting and itching to state every instance of the event when I am so hopeful and condescending it might work in my favour.

It had always been known, written in the stars, undeniably fated and stated by deep underlying axioms. Every new substance created by millions and billions of atoms, by chance and outrageous luck would know every possible income how yet this story could unfold and untangle. You'll find it's encrypted in their oscillation, in their based components, if one would halt and listen.

But no one who'd understand and has the mental capacity to process, can hear their minuscule voices.​

The war would happen whenever it would, but it surely was to, solely a little earlier contrary to everyone's anticipation, to my misinformation.

It would happen in a time, where people were much rather eager to wield their quills and note everything down, hungry to have the future known about their lives which would be forgotten and overlooked surely with Time, Time always the culprit.

The war wouldn't be only between doom and rebirth, but also between a small, fragile entity against a whole aspiring Empire, desperately fighting to stay independent, desperately battling to stay intact, whilst the other only fought to expand, the outcome doomed from the start.

Their failure was obvious, their demise expectable, when dacians and romans would fight as hard and frantically as sky would battle with the sea and on either side, only one winner would be produced.