When the Hourglass Breaks

When the hourglass breaks and the sands have spilled,

And silence falls where the noise once thrilled,

We stand before the mirror of the End—

A foe to none, yet none can it befriend.

We dress in suits, we tie our prideful knots,

We carve our names on gravestones, prized in plots.

We buy fine land for bones to lie in rest—

Yet waste our souls in haste, like all the rest.

We build our homes on shifting, mortal clay,

Then scoff at prophets who warned of this day.

We toast to power, money, sin, and fame,

As if Death signs no receipts to claim.

Oh, how we dance with time, that drunken jester!

We make love to dreams and gold, our master.

We fear old age as if it is the thief—

But Death was always there—beyond belief.

We mock the saints, we scorn the calls to pray,

Yet in the end, it’s dust to dust we say.

The thrones we sat on, chairs of vain delight—

Are buried too, beneath the endless night.

Tell me, rich man, did your coins delay

The angel’s wing or snatch the scythe away?

Did palaces and fleets and silken veils

Confuse the One who weighs eternal scales?

And you, oh scholar, with your books and ink,

Did all your knowledge save you from the brink?

Did pages whisper truths when Death came near,

Or did they burn and vanish with your fear?

We laugh at tombs, till we are laid beneath,

Wrapped in our pride, our sins, our last bequeath.

The preacher speaks, the mourners fake their tears,

But no man’s legacy can bribe the years.

Our eyes are blind with ego, thick as smoke,

We call it “life” but live it as a joke.

We trade our virtue for a trending post,

We speak of truth, but lies we love the most.

The tyrants die like poets in their bed,

The kings and slaves alike are cold and dead.

Death asks no titles, cares not for your name,

But only weighs your deeds, and not your fame.

The Day shall come—the great and mighty sound,

When skies shall split and stars crash to the ground.

The graves shall speak, the bones shall reunite,

The veils shall lift, revealing wrong and right.

What then, oh soul, will your account contain?

A list of deeds or echoes of disdain?

Did you uplift a life, or turn your face

From starving hands and mercy’s silent grace?

Oh, irony! We speak of peace and love,

While crafting war and bombs and hate above.

We sing of light while planting roots in dark,

Our prayers are words—our hearts a lifeless ark.

And yet, the mercy rains despite our flaws,

The Judge is just, but kind beyond all laws.

Repentance is a key, so rarely used—

We fear His wrath, but mercy we’ve refused.

Why do we wait for sickness to believe?

Why not in health the truth of Death receive?

We think we own the breath within our chest—

But one small pause, and none of us protest.

O Time! You thief, you silent, creeping ghost!

You stole our youth, our joy, the things we boast.

But Death! You are the great equalizing flame—

You burn all masks, and leave behind the same.

We chase our goals—some noble, most are vain—

We build our towers higher, brick with pain.

But Death, that final poet, scrawls in sand

A line that none may cross or countermand.

The soul, once housed in mortal, aching flesh,

Shall rise or fall depending on its mesh.

What good is beauty when the skin decays?

What good are lips if truth they never praise?

Oh, friends and foes! We all must take this path,

The drunk, the pure, the idol, and the wrath.

And when we go, we take no gem or gold—

But only what the Book of Deeds has told.

So tell me, preacher, when your time has come,

Will verses shield you from the Kingdom’s drum?

And you, my friend, who laughed at every creed—

What shield shall you raise on that day of need?

And I, the poet—yes, I too shall fall.

I mock the world, yet dread the Master’s call.

I speak of Death, yet beg for one more day—

To write one line that may not burn away.

We joke about the grave, we quote Macbeth—

Yet all must face the naked truth of Death.

And when we do, the charade shall collapse—

No more applause, no curtain-call, no claps.

The worms will feast on kings and cowards both,

And angels will inquire about our oath.

Did we uplift the weak, or seal their doom?

Did we plant trees or merely build our tomb?

A man is not what mirror shows at dawn—

But what remains when he is dead and gone.

Did we give light or darkness to the earth?

Did we live lives of substance or of dearth?

Oh, judge not Death—it only plays its part.

The fault is in our hearts, not in the dart.

It only ends what we have poorly played—

A game of masks, of debts we never paid.

Yet here’s the light: Death is not the end.

It is the bridge where all illusions bend.

A gate to truth, a purge of worldly rust—

Where only those with weightless hearts can trust.

So cry not, child, when loved ones go away—

They do not sleep—they’ve just outpaced the day.

And laugh not, fool, when sinning feels so sweet—

For Death is waiting softly at your feet.

Be kind, oh soul, and serve before you leave,

For deeds are seeds and Death is but the sieve.

And when the winds blow cold upon your cheek,

Make peace with those you wronged, and with the meek.

Forgive. Ask pardon. Rise before the fall.

Bow down in faith, for Pride precedes the call.

And when the trumpet sounds across the land,

Let angels carry you with gentle hand.

Let not your name be carved in stone alone,

But in the hearts of those whom love has known.

For Death cannot erase a selfless act—

It only shines the soul’s eternal fact.

Be not afraid of Death, but of regret.

Of time misspent, of love you might forget.

Of chances lost to speak a kind reply—

Of moments missed to watch a sunset sky.

And on that day, when all are judged as one,

When heaven opens wide and trials are done—

Let you be named among the merciful,

The kind, the just, the humble, and the full.

So heed this ode, ye living in disguise—

Before Death wipes the sleep from your closed eyes.

And when the hourglass breaks and breath is still,

May you be one whose soul the Heavens fill.