Poem #8 · 4:18pm Jan 17th, 2017
Sand (8)
Rough, grainy, small,
Too many to count even in a hand,
Children play with it in the day.
Compact, round, like dust,
Firmer form and smaller,
Without number, without voice,
Without song, without breath,
This is the ballad to sand,
For it will last even after death.