Our lives are short and full of sand
which shifts and trickles through our hands.
No longer can I take for granted
That tomorrow we shall not be parted!
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We fill our buckets on the beach
with dreams and hopes we try to reach
But sorrow knocks on every door
The shifting sands are here once more.
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These grains of sand like hairs are numbered
but bronzed and lazy we do but slumber.
Unaware that days like these
Will disappear upon the breeze.
S. Jones
Oma 