We face the hourglass of life,
Filled with grist of joy and strife.
Two bulbs, a narrow neck,
Each grain a single speck.
The top, the future, as it were,
The bottom is past, does not stir.
That third part, the neck, is now,
But one fleck does it allow.
To some, all grains look the alike,
Yet each unique, not a strike.
The top...
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