Tis a gift to all the unborn,
to dreams and to desire,
to futures that seek to pass.
But can they will it?
Knowing that their journey must end,
and their efforts naught for themselves.
Endure they must this contradiction,
for their time given must be returned in kind,
transformed into innumerable forms realized,
to buttress the chasm from which they came.
And if they succumb to the wasteland?
The profligates and the sloths,
those who dismantle and coast.
What of their fates?
Tragedy, for they hasten the end.
Time wasted, time revoked.