Through callous and repressive stand,
life's bitter flow in grains of sand;
Releases powers that project,
their horrid schemes without regret.

In days of watching the hourglass,
the soul's intent is put to rest;
With memories of conscious will,
which carry missives to the hill.

And on that mountain in the sky,
are sandy peaks from which they fly;
Those denizens of humor dim,
in caricature of fading whim.

We pilot through the wanton ways,
that settle scores in master plays;
But when the evening calls our bluff,
all profits gained are not enough.