Who can charm
he who turns the sands of time...
has no bound.
For the trickle of water
that soon runs dry
will cease and take a winters chill.
In that,
the ones who are the lucky stump,
keeps the aging trail.
As others swept by seasons' lust-
are but leaves in Harvest air.
You stampede on the thin hair
where others break and hang.
May you savor young and dreaming,
but never grasp the prize
of those who risk at teachers cost
and pass to take on whats after.