The sands run out, the glass empty and still,
and nothing stirs outside its dusty sphere;
no hand to turn, no vessel to refill,
and only silence holds its court in here.
The windows darken while the setting sun,
ensnared in naked branches, dips his head
below horizon hills--the only one
who might have told the living from the dead.
Where tramp the feet that once were used to roam
these halls? Where now do vanished voices sing?
Why now a house, where once there was a home?
How does Nothing devour Everything?
The ice glitters on eaves where no one dwells,
and silence blankets stories no one tells.
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