Quicksilver

All gone down, with their trials and problems, All gone away, with their joy and weeping, All have passed, with whatever they found; All grown quiet now, without a sound. All their importance, and all they lacked, All their smugness and humbleness too, All their loves, and their petty hatreds; All their lives, every day seems fated. All their days, condensed into naught, All their nights, fled too soon to light, All their hours, now distilled to dark; All their daring, there remains no spark. All their graves, there under the dirt, All their headstones that speak of toil, All their loved ones, who've moved on; All waiting their spot, when life has gone.