With fallen men and broken walls,
A lonesome soul, sets out on a journey.
His past destroyed, his present vulnerable,
He seeks a future unimagined.
He knew the cool waters,
The taste of meat.
There was a life,
and in that life,
there was hope.
Now as the waters turn to sand,
One thing remained, hope.
It can't feed you, it cannot be held.
But it provides until your dying breath.
Slowly as the hot sun,
takes away his life,
His mind feasts on hope.
Eventually this man is consumed by time.
As his carcass lays in the sand,
Sun and wind take away,
What vultures could not.
Throughout the movement,
of time and space,
one constant remains as mankind,
denigrates to dust.
He has left a rift in the sand.
A mark, a constant, a hope.
That one day, all that humanity,
has to offer, not just be recorded
on walls or books.
The essence of man,
must be recorded on every grain of sand.
For within every grain of sand,
Lays at least one man with hope.