Songs Of Time I

Moments slipping, moments passing,

Rushing out the golden day.

In a cycle everlasting

As the sun does slip away.


Ever ticking, always moving

Like a yellow dusty sand

Before all records it existed

The sun was the first hour hand.


Can I hold it, can I keep it

Some of this dear golden sand?

No one keeps it, no one holds it

Time rips time from mortal hands.