(Inspired by friends' poem with same title)
I picked up the sand, moist from my tears
But it dried quickly by my burning fears
Since then I've tried
To hold sand in my hand
Part of a futile plan
To display the heart of man
It's a futile attempt to tell the story
Yet they hold moments of glory
But they are slipping away
For grains of sand are not clay
I tighten my grip
Trying not to let a grain slip
And with every passing thought
I'm losing what I got
Something very dear
The tension hard to steer
A vacancy steadily occurs
An emptiness full of blurs
But I keep trying
Otherwise a piece of me is dying
To hold sand
In my hand
How hard it is win a battle but lose the war
When winning didn’t matter, lest it heal the scar
When I know what is my destiny
When the sands of time bury the rest of me
I will count each grain of sand
As they slowly fall from my hand
Each an ache of constant sorrow
Knowing things will be the same tomorrow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
great poem very detailed