Sieve

A series of ambiguous images
Flowing through the subconscious
The ancient symbol of the hourglass
Flashes across the vision
The sands of time rushing through the glass
Like so many fish struggling as one
Against the current's drag.
A symbol of that which is called time,
No more than a conscious perception of an institution
And yet it flows by like a clear mountain spring.
Rather, we are swept along with it
As is everything else that we perceive to exist therein.
It must have a beginning and an end
Lest it be called an eternity
For which, in order to comprehend it,
we should require a time without end,
perhaps better defined as the absence of time as a concept
That which is forever.
Yet with our perception of human living,
Our time is spaced by means of birth and death
And when our life has progressed to such an extent
that we should realize how much we have accomplished
In the events that have thus far occurred in life,
It suddenly seems such a short time
And that institution of time suddenly becomes a looming shadow
On our horizon.
That which is integrated into culture with the metallic hand of clock
The dark shadow of the sundial and the glare of the hour glass
And is ever present in the conscious part of the mind
Is now harsh reality.
We are running out of time,
For an event draws ever closer
That marks the end of our time
We must be sifted now through the Sieve,
Till naught remains but the finest of
That which has been given us.