The Sea

The sand flows,
in earbabble whispers,
gently in soft gravity,
falling as mist,
a million tears, voices,
of a grey past,
whirling in the breaths of history.

Gently in soft gravity,
the grains tumble.
A million tears, falling, salty
to a glass-flat level,
to which all things are destined,
to tiny ripples, ever decreasing,
an ever-dying sea.