SANDS OF TIME

The sands of time, one by one, run through the hour glass and as the sands pass to the depths below you know this hour of the day has passed away. Flip the glass over and then the sands of time are reversed again and, like actors in a play well rehearsed, they once more descend and blend into a morass in this urn of glass. Cremated bone of another dead hour alone, the ashes of a full day gone never to greet its child, the dawn. This is how time devours hours. Who mourns the passing day? Without regret or sorrow, make way for tomorrow.