In the Sands of Time
I’m writing letters
in the sands of time
but I don’t know why,
since it is only a matter of time
until they are gone,
washed away by the tide.
Maybe time will have mercy
and let them be,
until swallowed up in eternity
they become obsolete.
Perhaps the waters,
with seducing persistence,
will take them
to live among the deep multitudes,
not far from where fantasies are born
and poems are drawn.
They could end up on the other shores,
washed up like a lost sailor,
not more at home
than a frog from another pond.
I’ve heard of those shores,
of their music and sounds,
of their dances and songs.
Maybe there the letters,
lost as they may be,
will find a better meaning,
a more sublime purpose,
and learn to say what mortals
are not allowed to understand.
Or perhaps they will
remain for a season,
or two,
only to disappear into emptiness…
unnoticed,
unread.
Then,
there are those seemingly eternal letters
that others have carved in times gone by;
they are so many and so loud,
that even I can’t hear
my own letters cry.
But how could a man neglect to do
that which his soul is called to do?
And so I’m writing letters
in the sands of time,
even if I still don’t know why.