Perhaps this very instant is your time.
Poetry is often generations in advance of the thought of its time.
Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.
At midnight tears Run into your ears.
The poem is always the last resort. In it the poet makes a world in little, and finds peace, even though, under complete focused emotion, the evocation be far more bitter than reality, or far more lovely.
The measured blood beats out the year's delay.