We chase the ghost of yesterday,
In shadows where the memories play;
But Time has washed the tracks away,
And turned the colored fields to grey. [18]
We build our hopes on future sand,
A kingdom in a distant land;
But Time, with its relentless hand,
Dissolves the very ground we planned. [19]
The past is but a graveyard's stone,
A story that is no one's own;
The seeds of sorrow we have sown,
In winds that have already blown. [20]
The future is a phantom's breath,
A mask that hides the face of death;
The weaver and the tangled meth,
Of all the words the spirit saith. [21]
Between the memory and the scheme,
We live within a waking dream;
A ripple on a rushing stream,
A flicker of a candle's beam. [22]
Maya weaves the "before" and "next,"
A convoluted, ancient text;
Leaving the weary soul perplexed,
By phantom ghosts and shadows vexed. [23]
