Swirling down the funnel thin,
The sands glisten in the light.
No one knows when they will end
Their flowing; when day turns to night.

Those that fell are trapped in glass--
Which sand becomes when it's burned.
Some people may think it crass;
They say to fall is to turn.

Hypocrites, I call them all,
Who forsake their fellow brothers.
They rejoice in evil's fall
But mourn their son's and daughter's.

In time distance is then made
So that some can run and hide from
It, knowing that its long blade
Will reach, and that they will be gone.

And yet, by some divine purpose,
They accept this knowledge well.
All of this comes, I suppose,
From the stories that they tell.

Majestic tales from our fathers,
And from their fathers the same,
Teach us all, our kin and others,
Of who we are and when we came.