One morning at sunrise,
I walked the beach
Looking for shells.

High on the bank,
Where no wave could reach,
An old man watched intently.

After a while
He gestured with his hand,
Calling me to him.

"You have many lives to live,"
He said (in a strange accent)
As he picked up a handful of sand
And let it run back to the ground
Through his fingers.

"That's a lot of lives", I said,
Watching the last of it fall
And trying not to look afraid.

"Not the sand in my hand," he said,
"The sand on the beach."
He extended his arms,
Raised his eyes,
Then vanished
Before I could speak.