There in a desert by the wave of a wand, from corners unseen the winds blow tossing mystic sand. By the backdrops of a serene night from scuttles poured stars, and moonlight, there by the silence our lives are played out in that hazy white light. Here we are but sands of fate, puppetry of hands; malleable clay, till the threads break and we drift far away to fates unknown; hanging strands floating astray, forever tangled in this eternal play.