He would sit there on the sand,
A soldier watching the tide for hours on end.
In the times of peace between the battles he fought
He would remain there lost in thought.
Many times the object of his affection would turn her curious gaze
To the dune where he frequently lay.
She would not wonder why he hid under a mask,
But of his love for the sea she would always ask.
Under the moon by his side she would come to stand,
Reaching down to hold his calloused hand.
Once she looked at the line where the water would turn and fade
And inquired of him, "How is sand made?"
She didn't have to wait long for his reply:
"It is made as we are, it is taken from the sky.
Where a higher power sends it to the sea
And there it could remain for eternity.
But if it is one the unfortunate few
It is forced to come live on land just as we're to do."
Her face took on an expression of pain
As she asked, "Is being here such a bad thing?"
"It matters who you are destined to be
Until you are swept back into the sea.
Each grain of dry sand is like a human life,
Finding its way back to an ocean that seems not to care of its fight.
The oceans care not how much blood we shed,
It just rolls in and out as it has since time began.
When it takes sand back into its watery home
It is like human death: welcome and insignificant alone."
His listener just sighed and shook her head,
"I hate talking to you, you speak riddles and as if you wish to be dead!"
She started to make her way back to camp,
Leaving the boy back to his thoughts, cold and damp.
He whispered quietly so she would not turn back to the sound,
"But my love, what plagues me is the question of why not how.
Why was it that on this shadowed shore I am beached?
Placed so close to having Heaven but too far into Hell's reach?"
He turned back full of anguish to the stars and sea,
"Why doesn't the ocean care to rescue me?"