The Sands of Earth
by
Amethyst

What does it mean that we have lived at all?
With all we have destroyed, is it our fate
to pass from time and history too late
to save ourselves? Do we deserve to fall
away unnoticed, unidentified
except by scattered bones an age from now?
What truth is this? And if the truth, then how
does faith explain itself? What truth am I?
Who'll write our chapters in the sands of earth
when we are gone and all our works are dust?
Yet, if one symphony, one poem was worth
God's time, one innocent was worth his trust,
then maybe He is richer for our birth
and glad for having once believed in us.