The grains of sand trickle by,
never pausing for a moment.
A steady stream, flowing past the fingers of Men,
of whom only few manage to capture and be immortalized through Time.

Leaves turn brown as the End draws near,
names inscribed upon the veins,
life seeps, and Death creeps,
they fall and the soul feels it,
alas the End draws near for them.

The pen has been set aside, and the ink has dried. The Book that is Fate is completed.