None of what we sense
or read, here and now,
will be for long.
Certain as light this moment has mutated into a shadow.
Everything in time will vanish.
Abandoning its form only to shape unto another.
Ceasing to be, perpetually metamorphosed into a brand, new being.
These words, too, will be conquered by silence.
The illusion of permanence.
Melancholy into song, hands to labor,
a residence in transience.
All of it, cities and masses,
the intangible matter.
The existential clay molded by our carpenter's hands
Boris Amar
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/carpenter-2/
