I've heard it told all things must pass
Our days profound, yet, fragile still,
Are trapped within a tender glass


Though sands so ardorously mass
And like the tears of Chronus spill,
Good times must all, one day, drift pass


Though ever-fervently amassed,
Howe'er meticulously filled,
We're bound by that same hour-glass


It's never reverent, never crass,
It's bound by neither good nor ill,
Resolved instead to see us pass


Its master's bound within its grasp
For none can flee its solemn will
As Saturn, too, is cased in glass


We fear to see our sands fly fast
And falling faster, bid them still,
Though in our hands they quickly pass


But neither future, present, past
Can work to find this truth distilled:
It's in our hands to turn the glass


Life's a drink, though quickly passed,
I think I'll pour another glass.