A young boy runs bare-foot over the shore.
He carries a bucket in either hand,
one of sorrow and one of joy,
but both of the buckets are filled with sand.
Will anyone ever understand?
We dream our castles in the air,
but build them firmly on the ground,
forget the eternal return of the tide.
And in the morning they are not found.
Once you are up and running free,
whatever you seek, whatever you find,
you can never return to the childhood land.
And all that is left after you and me
are the wind-blown dunes, the sky and the sea;
all that is left is the sea and sky,
and the myriad, myriad grains of sand.
© Adrian Campbell 2003