Revision 18/10/16
The lone and level sands that fill the bowl
of human understandings do not shift.
Our pride has no horizons when our goal
is lasting glory; to this world we gift
such splendid dreams – but who is to recall
where once we trod? Our footsteps always fade
and parchment rots to dust while pillars fall.
Mortality becomes a beggar’s trade,
yet were our lives not hemmed by earthly thread
would inspiration take that vital turn?
Or would our patience stagnate us instead?
It's death that makes the fires of greatness burn.
Draw breath each day with eyes cast to the sky –
there’s time enough for grounding when you die.
The lone and level sands that fill the bowl
of human understanding do not shift.
Our pride has no horizons, and our goal
is lasting glory; to this world we gift
such splendid dreams – but who is to recall
where once we trod, for footsteps always fade
and parchment rots to dust while pillars fall.
Mortality becomes a beggar’s trade,
yet were our lives not hemmed by earthly thread
would inspiration take that vital turn?
Or would our patience stagnate us instead?
‘Tis death that makes the fires of greatness burn.
Take ev’ry breath with eyes cast to the sky –
there’s time enough for grounding when you die.
The lone and level sands that fill the bowl
of human understandings do not shift.
Our pride has no horizons when our goal
is lasting glory; to this world we gift
such splendid dreams – but who is to recall
where once we trod? Our footsteps always fade
and parchment rots to dust while pillars fall.
Mortality becomes a beggar’s trade,
yet were our lives not hemmed by earthly thread
would inspiration take that vital turn?
Or would our patience stagnate us instead?
It's death that makes the fires of greatness burn.
Draw breath each day with eyes cast to the sky –
there’s time enough for grounding when you die.
Quote: Original Version
The lone and level sands that fill the bowl
of human understanding do not shift.
Our pride has no horizons, and our goal
is lasting glory; to this world we gift
such splendid dreams – but who is to recall
where once we trod, for footsteps always fade
and parchment rots to dust while pillars fall.
Mortality becomes a beggar’s trade,
yet were our lives not hemmed by earthly thread
would inspiration take that vital turn?
Or would our patience stagnate us instead?
‘Tis death that makes the fires of greatness burn.
Take ev’ry breath with eyes cast to the sky –
there’s time enough for grounding when you die.
It could be worse