Their faces, long-forgotten, stare from tarnished picture frames, Their frozen lips no longer shout their long-forgotten names. They were as we, those happy few, those players of the past, Within a few more fleeting years, our paths shall meet at last. Our picture dim shall hang as theirs on some forgotten wall, Some passers-by shall glance at it, but others not at all. The dust shall gather on its glass, and as its colours fade, So too shall pass the sweeping lives of heroes there portrayed. We are as dust, and swept away upon the winds of time, Yet while we live, the world is ours, we ever higher climb Ambition's stony slopes, and on the wings of praise we soar; And never give a thought to when those wings will be no more. We pass away, and ask ourselves what we may leave behind, Immortal names, or something great for future years to find. Is this our great achievement, or is this enduring fame? One soiled, faded picture, in a broken picture frame.