All the world is windswept sand or steady stone,
And each must heed his designed calling for neither
Is left without purpose, be it running or idle.

Those of sand stretch themselves far against horizon,
Loving only the setting sun or the lookout mountains,
But leave nothing behind to record their wanderings.

Those of stone do not fall, nor stand they ready for change,
But remain still to soberly remember the tales told
In quick whispers by those who travel quickly past…

Here am I, a strand of sand dancing upon every breeze,
And, being curious to other lands, renounce any loyality
To sovereign nation, power hungry or weak.

But the stones inquire after the domains beyond and I
Speak upon the rocks left for me to stand, staying but a little
To proclaim the tidings I might bring from their far brothers.

As I spoke did other sands turn and sneer. But unlike them
I remember I was once a part of stone, a son born of wind,
And I wondered what dishonor lay in my passing on
That which our curious stone fathers longed to know.