Sands of Time

He climbs the dune, both man and shade, A whisper drawn in gold decayed. Each step, a hush—each breath, a rhyme, Etched softly in the sands of time. The wind forgets, the sun stands still, The world bends gently to his will. No haste, no fear, no thought, no crime— Just footprints fading into time. Then wide the lens begins to bloom, Revealing fate’s eternal room: An hourglass turned on its spine, Where man walks slow through falling time. Above, the grains cascade like prayer, Below, the past waits unaware. He does not turn, he does not climb— He simply walks the sands of time.