//Bitter tears embellish the dear sand,
for its dwellers; the weeds, the worms-
near their end.
The bosom friends of the sand
can’t help but harm themselves,
for they are deprived of mercy by being
stamped by feet so hot yet cold –
of none other than we “humans”.
The weeds do yell, agonized,
but no ears hear them.
The worms breathe their closing breath
yet nothing but futile it goes.
Dejected, they interrogate themselves;
“What purpose...