A boy stands on a beach,
A beach no different than any other he has seen.
Yet by the toil of his hands and passion of his heart,
On this beach he digs for pirate gold.
His hands become scarred like the cliffs,
His arms heavy like the waves.
The young men would rather laugh and play,
The old men amuse in this juvenile fool.
While the seasons change, the boy never ceases.
His hair grows as long as the drifting weeds,
His wrinkles become as deep as the runnels on the beach.
The young men now are too tired to play,
The old men have become the sand of the beach.
Yet still the boy digs for pirate gold.
One day the sun breaks where sea meets sky,
The men rise from their slumber as they did each day.
But on this day the boy is no longer to be found.
Was he made rich or swept out by the sea?
The men of the village they never will know,
For only the fool who never ceases to dig,
Knows if the cost makes him richer than sand.
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