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.

Patti Masterman

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/quicksilver-4/