Echoes of the Hourglass

The hourglass of mantras, tipped to the brim with sand

How nationalistically stained are the sands of time, splattered with the blood of martyrs
Who thrust their hearts and minds into the ocean of naiveté
Still beating and believing beneath our feet, at every echo of government voices
And how laced are the sands of time with the candor's hopeful hearts
The hourglass of mantras, tipped to the brim with histories voices
Never ending are the sand dunes of illusion
They have slowly sunk the golden caravans of princes, hypnotized by the promise of serenity and reversal

On the verge of ruin, time will go on
Their fuddled prayers rising alongside the soulless winds of dawn
Time will go on, on the verge of human rage
For wisdom is judged by the countable ticking seconds of age

Summerchild, refugee of a world run my time
Oblivious to the essences of days and nights
Daydreaming beneath the abyss of empty skies to forget their recurring cries
Child, the faithful and sagacious orchestrator of time
Taunted by the never ending echoes of the hourglass and its rhyme.