We chase the ghost of yesterday,

In shadows where the memories play;

But Time has washed the tracks away,

And turned the colored fields to grey. [18]

We build our hopes on future sand,

A kingdom in a distant land;

But Time, with its relentless hand,

Dissolves the very ground we planned. [19]

The past is but a graveyard's stone,

A story that is no one's own;

The seeds of sorrow we have sown,

In winds that have already blown. [20]

The future is a phantom’s breath,

A mask that hides the face of death;

The weaver and the tangled meth,

Of all the words the spirit saith. [21]

Between the memory and the scheme,

We live within a waking dream;

A ripple on a rushing stream,

A flicker of a candle’s beam. [22]

Maya weaves the "before" and "next,"

A convoluted, ancient text;

Leaving the weary soul perplexed,

By phantom ghosts and shadows vexed. [23]