The dial

From what I see the dial seems inevitable word,
An outpouring based on a morning impression
As two sand vehicles mark morning on the river
In a flash of dazzling luminosity of a sunlight
And their sand is making in holes of river bed
While a second  stream overhangs on its sky.

The dial has a sweet face, a right angled feature
The softness of a morning sun, a slant in its eyes
So shining in men's faces, their eyes crinkling
In their Buddhism of a middle path of compassion.
The dial never stops, mornings always turn days
To endless nights of bellyaches or pillow-turns
A plain reminder of time inexorably closing space.

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