Each day, hour twenty-four gives one a rough time,
Piercing the illusion that there is enough time.
Sand in a voluptuous glass scours our hearts.
What hard, violent, rushing, unfeeling stuff, time!
Manage it. Curse it. Dance about it. Divide it.
The truth yet remains: you can never rebuff time.
For a moment, it hovers. For a year, it flees.
Tempus fugit, tempus cessat. None can slough time.
At the end of our days, full of sorrow and praise,
That silent watchman stands atop the great bluff: Time.