I read again after awhile.
It tasted the same as I had expected.
Sand was used to describe the way
Time moves, the past, the present,
The future.

Melancholic the sob I stuck.
The back of my itching throat-
Waiting for the pandora box to open.

Warm sections of the everlasting winter
And chilling nights of the blink of a summer.
We grow and our cells break, die, and regenerate.

I wish to make the sand chronicle lay down
So that time would be equally distributed on the past and future. Where, the narrow passage of the present is a chamber for one's perceptions.

In an unusual way I learned again to cherish the love that flows like a heat wave in traffic.
When reading the lines of someones life in paper.