On a faraway road, in a long-bereft place,
There is written in sand of the sad human race,
And how many will wonder, though few come to know
Of the path that is dying, and where it must go.

For the follies of youth and of age are the same:
There's our own high regard, and our small sense of shame,
And our feeling invulnerable, safe behind walls,
And our own shocked surprise when the whole of it falls,

When there's only the wreck left, and none of the dreams.
But emptiness isn't as bad as it seems:
For though tumbleweeds gather, and sand, as it must,
It's at last good to know we're at home

In the dust