Sand doesn't need direction, It doesn't flow, It simply gives way,
Abandoning attachment to its place,
When someone else passes over it
It has no voice because it has always
Been considered worthy of being crushed
The river water doesn't ask who is beneath,
It simply erases even the memory of anyone in its swiftness.
Sand, Which for centuries
Having lived in the shadow of stones
Watched them transform into temples
And itself been considered the dust of feet
It was collected sometimes in bricks,
Sometimes on the sides of funeral processions, Sometimes in mining
Where its identity is only quantity,
Not meaning
It slips when someone wants to be stable.
It is blamed for sinking,
As if being unstable is its fault
That silence, pervasive, in the corners of houses, at construction sites,
slowly accumulating beneath time
No one ever asked the sand
if it wanted to stay
where buildings were erected
Every time a bridge was built,
it flowed beneath it without a name,
without documents
Sand has no history
it isn't found in museums,
because it doesn't last
and history belongs to those who stay.
Sand knows
that being held makes it slip away faster.
It didn't deceive every hand,
it simply didn't respond
to that attempt at a grip
that held more authority than love.
The sand's pain isn't
that it isn't solid but
that everyone accepts it as ground
without noticing that it's slipping away
It's not pain, nor a storm
just a wait for a touch
that can grasp it not in form but in meaning.
