The sands of time

I have in my two hands some sand from a beach.
I hold it; look at it; feel it, lose it.

I choose to open my fingers, making openings in which
the sand smoothly sifts through, escaping into the air-to freedom.
To freedom it floats until it is caught in another pair of hands; it
waits patiently to float once again.

I look after that sand, with sad eyes
wanting to hold it again.
I desperately grab more sand from the beach
on which i stand.

But it is not the same.
This new sand in my hand
is not
the
same.

The sand that I had let go of is gone now.
It shall never return.
I am not the only one who can attest to this.

I look to this new sand in my hands and I
realize the mistake in which I had made
with the sands of the past.

I hold the sand in my two hands from a beach.
I hold it, look at it, embrace it, keep it.