Friends, to consult your watches will be useless
when, someday, I am gone from your lives
so lost in solving futile problems to survive
they seem to be obituaries in progress.

For time is an invention of death;
it is unknown to life, true life, that is,
when a single moment of poetry
is enough to give us all of eternity.

All of it, yes, because eternal life
can only by itself be divided;
it cannot be apportioned, bit by bit.

And the Angels trade looks of bewilderment
when someone —himself again, in the afterlife—
happens to ask them: “What time is it?”…

(translated by John D. Godinho)
Ah, Watches! in The Color of the Invisible