With bodies made of stardust
And minds driven by dreams,
Mortals write on papers of time.
Like scrawling words at the seashore.
At the behest of purpose,
And a night's deafening screams,
Art is made in the image of man.
As he is made in the image of God.
And as waves of years hit,
Glories fade and wash away
Like the words in wet sands,

Then a symphony of souls comes to a halt,
To be sung by faceless people in the future.