A man doesn't have time in his life <br />to have time for everything. <br />He doesn't have seasons enough to have <br />a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes <br />Was wrong about that. <br /> <br />A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment, <br />to laugh and cry with the same eyes, <br />with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them, <br />to make love in war and war in love. <br />And to hate and forgive and remember and forget, <br />to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest <br />what history <br />takes years and years to do. <br /> <br />A man doesn't have time. <br />When he loses he seeks, when he finds <br />he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves <br />he begins to forget. <br /> <br />And his soul is seasoned, his soul <br />is very professional. <br />Only his body remains forever <br />an amateur. It tries and it misses, <br />gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing, <br />drunk and blind in its pleasures <br />and its pains. <br /> <br />He will die as figs die in autumn, <br />Shriveled and full of himself and sweet, <br />the leaves growing dry on the ground, <br />the bare branches pointing to the place <br />where there's time for everything.<br /><br />Yehuda Amichai<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-man-in-his-life/
