How the sands fly!
The child runs behind.
Sweeping and sweeping.
Gathering and gathering.
In the pockets of her apron.
A mad impulse from a dream.
Come brave souls!
We’ll work it out.
One permeable pocket,
A lose thread chasing truths.
Each grain captured,
Stolen by the wind.
More distant than ever.
Buried with bones and ashes.
What use borrowed memory!
Only to bewitch,
To play with ghosts.
A moment, nothing more.
Yet follow and follow.
Pursue the remains.
Flying sands must rest.
If only a single grain,
Finds peace.
Searching and searching.
You sift the sands.
Searching and searching.
Seeking repair.
Abandoned crimes,
Leave a bitter stain.
So come brave souls!
We’ll lend compassion.
Tears cleanse
And swell her apron,
Forming a finger in the dyke
And grain by grain
The child will hold back time.
Sonia Boué 2014
