[Qingxiao] Flowing Gravel

Time is like sand slipping through your fingers. No matter how tightly you cup it in your hands, in the end it always runs away.

But the grains that settle remain in your palm.

Whether you want them to or not, you can never quite shake them all out.

“To you, I’m nothing more than sand slipping through your fingers.” The man in the white shirt scooped up a handful of sand. He clenched his left hand into a fist, yet watched the bright grains spill between his fingers as he said calmly, “But you don’t know that to me, you are heavy grains of sand, settled at the bottom.”

“Forever, you’ll stay in the palm of my hand.”

“Together with the years, you’ve carved your lines into it.”

“You’ve always been there, and always will be.”

“Even in death, the mark will remain.”

No one will ever be left without a home.