She drew a small circle in the burning sands of time
To convey her vehement message of truth
A merit so worthy of honor and praise from the ones
Who gathered to survey her prelude

They watched as she tenderly touched each grain of sand
With her fingertips, so delicately fine
Each one holding their breath to see what would happen
Wondering if the circle would affect their own time

Each delicate movement, each brush of her fingers
Brought forth new triumphant sighs
As each relieved eye in the crowd looked and cheered on
When no change to themselves was applied

In one final swift movement she finished with flourish
The small circle she had drawn with her hands
And the world as they knew it disappeared into nothing
Like the sands of time, they allowed her to command