51³Ô¹ÏÍø

The songs of the sands are echoed in the wavesso silent and strong and sureThe movement of shadow and light that playson lives we all endureThe timeless ebb and flow of lifeimprints upon our dreamsWith every high there is surely a lowand for death there is no cureWe find our selves drifting on thieving tidesA piece of wood, a squash of foamOur paths unmapped this way and thatWe bob along like flotsam,discarded, adrift, so far from home