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The Blood on Our Hands

de Thränenkind

You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All I ever had just fades away,
The only memory left, is of our special day.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand.
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep, while I weep!

My dear! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
My dear! can I not save
One from the pitiless waves?

But the only one i really need to save,
While struggling with the ruthless waves,
From drowning in these endless shores
Is this one important grain of yours.

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