Once full of men, now little is here.
Only some trash, like empty cans of beer.
And a few lone gulls in the air still fly.
But most living things no more here reside.
But their imprints stay to mark where they were.
A million shapes in the sand no more stir.
Some large, some small, and some out of control,
And some clearly lost in wandering stroll.
But all now dead beneath the setting sun.
Like carvings in stone, will soon be undone.
Tomorrow will come and new marks will grow.
The fate of those past nobody will know.
So their tale ends, and unlamented dies.
They pass to the past, and nobody cries.