All is sand and dust
All things shaped by hands are sand castles
Destined to the destruction of the waves of the shore
Destined for the annihilation of the wind’s passing sweep
I shall never move a grain of sand again
I shall never touch it, push it, move it into place
I shall never more walk the blinding sun,
Or toil under its ugly, purposeless weight
For, all of its additions sum to zero
All its work and toil brings nothing worth having
There is not one reason–no not one
To cling desperately, to hold on to its unsightliness
All of your days, you shall never uncover a reason;
Why should you desire to live at all?
Shed that desire to live, let it die;
Let it separate from you as far as the east is from the west!
Yet—what is this?
What is this gleam which eagerly
Does scoff the wind to blow,
Does taunt the wave to crash?
What are you, that you have not faded in the sun’s gaze?
What are you, that you have not worn down to the ground
Under heaven’s heavy hand of misery?
What is this which cannot be burnt or spent or broken or worn?
Like water you are,
Like water to a tongue that has ventured through summer’s desert sun
Like a tongue that has searched under every rock
For a wanting value incalculable
A device to make comprehensible
The washing away of the sand
A single reason delivered quietly
To bring immediate understanding to every conceivability.
What fools, you all
To have passed up this simplest of baubles
Which never does lose its luster
To build your empire of sand and heaped dust.
And yet, if I am the fool,
If I am indeed an imbecile vagabond,
Then you kings of the sand
I must scoff as transitory frenetic lunatics!