This was spurned by the following poem about the passage of time (by my hand as well). Happy reading if you do! R

The Death Of Infancy

Hark! The jingle-jangles, the rings and dings of bells,
Bidding for both your ears, against shrill infant yells,
And the claps and the taps, of hands and tiny feet,
In almost perfect time, with the drums their sticks beat!

Lo! The sands 'neath their feet, starts now to sink and shift,
Bashed bones, bloody bruises, as they are cast adrift,
Scattered about like babes, 'midst their toys in a crèche,
Sand sifts upon the flesh, of skins no longer fresh!

Hark, or rather hark not! For the bells clink no more,
The shrill juvenile songs, now stick in their throats sore,
Heavy too are their feet, dead-weights dragged in defeat,
The swings of sticks are stayed; drum skins no more to meet!

Lo! The sands round those feet, is shifting now once more,
This time it carves a mark, upon the blood-soaked floor,
It proves to be a word, that spells T, I, M, E,
Yes! The sands of Time have wrought, The Death of Infancy!