What time is it exactly?

Every wayfarer was a “clock”. Old woman used to sit front of door for hours, waiting for “clocks”. Then she would ask: “What time is it?”
- 6 PM
- Exactly 6 o’clock?
- Nope, 5 min to 6 o’clock.
- Ah ok!

“Clocks” were people. But If once you went across that alley, the old woman would be still the old woman. That “What time is it?” question would be a common question for you, a question that could be asked in every other moments, by everyone.Was not that much important to mind it. But after awhile, 2nd time, 3rd time, when for everytime the question would be repeated in your mind, the old woman could not be the old woman. She would be a very old woman, who has asked for years: “What time is it? Exactly?”

The Old woman used to say that “Exactly” word with such a feeling, no poet could say for his beloved. The old woman, the woman old being..
I used to go through that alley, Everyday and night pass by the alley. To go to work, to come back home. Everyday and night, I was one of those “clocks” to be asked. I was free for I never have my watch or clock with me. I never gauge time. So my answer was always clear that “I don’t mind time.”
Yet like me, when you hear the question for thousands, the question becomes question for you. It comes to be true, to be real. Then you go behind the question. And forever there is a neighborhood out there, the old one in the alley, who is wall to wall of question, who has the answer into his heart. The neighborhood said to me: “Poor woman, she is waiting for her husband. He was working on railway. One day he went and never came back. Later we found out he had died in that day. Yet the poor woman doesn’t believe. She is waiting for him, waiting for time of 6 PM, the time he would come back..”

There are years I have not passed by the alley. I went to other alley, to other street, to other city, to other country. Yet the old woman is sitting there. Yet she is there, into that alley, front of that door. Yet every wayfarer is a “clock”.

“What time is it Exactly?..”

And she says that “Exactly” word with such a feeling, no poet could say for his beloved. No matter what, I believe her. I know he will come back one day, into that alley toward her at 6 PM. Exactly at 6 o’clock..