What Will Become of Future Days
What will become of future days,
after Time’s hourglass evens out?
When his ticking hands fall still in praise
will we collapse in clamor, or drown devout?
Will memory fade into the dust
like crystal webs now yellowed thread?
Will love decay, or does it just
lie sleeping with our dreams long dead?
Cities carved from noise and flame—
their names we etched in gold—
will they remain, or end the same:
grand columns cracked and split alone?
And if some wind still sweeps the land
unmoved by dusk or birth,
will it recall our trembling hands,
palms that once kissed the earth?
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