The hourglass was thirsty it drank to its drains
and each grain was countless, we turned it again.
And when future looked over the shoulder
it saw, besides everything else,
that the party was over.
Indeed, isn't hourglass made of sand after all?
And it's sand there within, jailed like a thrall.
By slavery our time can’t be measured,
by slavery so bitter and vain
we turn it again.
When hourglass was broken, it felt as if sand
sighed in relief, and that was the end.
We just slipped off the room to the morning
recovered our solitude’s poise
and the party was over
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