An elder tills the sand.
His work is loved by not a soul,
Save he with blistered hand.
That ancient desert takes his gift,
But gives him no due thanks.
This single man, in all his spans,
Could never sculpt its banks.
You may think the same as that
Which values him so slight.
"What matters this old creature's work
When all my land is blight?"
Long has he been tilling here,
And long he'll labor still.
That malady is limited
Upon that desert hill.
What beauty could that sand endure,
The elder will not say.
His choked reply, if he is asked,
"And why should I dismay?
"I've seen the beauties of the sea,
And sand is sand the same."
His words are wisdom, simple, true:
Why is the world untame?
Or, for that matter, why should lakes
So differ from the sea?
What happens when they meet between?
Do they both cease to be?
The old man's work one can't forget.
The trials of this world
Are naught when brought against the past
Or other man's accord.
What of that old burning man
Who rakes and tills the sand?
He works in hope of greater worlds
That never will be grand.
This is a reconstruction of my poem "The Fate of Life".
Note the similarities, but note the differences as well.
7/8/04
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