The Sands

The surf, it always sounds the same.
And yet, of it we never tire;
We seek to hide away from blame,
And so to lassitude conspire.
And raise but few demands –

A wave comes in upon the beach,
And we, its sullen essence feel:
The you in me, the none in each,
The emerald sound of what is real.
At home along the sands

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