A beaten poet carves his name into the sand. His fingertips are raw and red. He carves in deep. He loses his ring. He carves and he carves and he craves. The words and letters are tattooed onto the sand. It is conquest, a due right of his effort, a crown for his work. But, the wind changes and the seas become angry. They stir the shoreline. The poet is deaf and he does not hear the beasts run for safety. The seas spew their waters upon the poet, pulling him in. The poet fights. Inching his way back to the sand, his shirt is pulled off.

Seeing that his name was washed away along with his shirt, the poet screams in agony, "why oh sea, do you rip away my hope from me?"

The poet gets back into work. He collects sticks and stones and honey. He builds a podium stretching high above the trees; it grows and grows high into the sky. The poet hangs his shoes up to dry. The poet laughs in victory, and drinks to his stupor. But, the winds change and the birds find their way to his shore. They search to build a nest. All the twigs of the shore are on display high above the trees. So, one by one the limbs of his podium are plucked, and little by little his podium falls. The poet awakes, hammered and hung-over.

Seeing that his podium was stripped away along with his shoes, the poet screams in agony, "why oh birds, do you rip away my hope from me?"

The poet gets back to work. He will not stop until he owns this shoreline. He sharpens a rock and begins to kill the inhabitants of his shore. Away go the apes, and the lizards, and the bees. All but the birds feel the death of the poet's eyes. The poet lights the trees on fire and laughs in victory. The flames burn brightly. He is mesmerized by his creation and does not search for shelter. Twilight comes and darkness follows. He lights a match, his last match. Hungry for it to illuminate his perpetual night, he holds his hand to the fire. He is burned. A cool breeze blows and extinguishes his match, his last match.

Seeing that his light was blown away along with his sight, the poet screams in agony, "why oh breeze, do you rip away my hope from me?"

Beasts from distant shores have heard of his massacres. They come for him. He is consumed by fear for his death is near. He cowards and digs blindly into the sand. He digs and he digs and he digs. The beasts are close. He is in their sight. They rage the deaths of their brothers upon his chest, and raid him of his jeans. The poet is left bare and blind until the morning comes.

Seeing that his health was ripped away along with his ring, with his shoes, with his shirt, with his jeans, the poet screams in agony, "why oh beasts do you rip away my hope from me?"

The poet does not know what is at hand. All he can do is point to his blue skies and scream. All he can do is build. All he can do is say his own name. "Man," he shouts. "Man," he carves onto the sand. "Man," he whispers till the twilight of night.

But then, in the distance, about one hundred paces away, he spots a footstep. It is human. But it is radiant. A step away, is another print, and another and another. They get brighter as he follows them. Brighter and brighter, deeper and deeper they are set. Harder and harder the sand becomes. Easier and easier is his walk. The poet's back is straightened. His fingertips are healed, his health is returned. The seas fall asleep. The poet asks, "Man?" The poet screams "Man, is this your footprint?"

The clear answer is no.

The poet is baffled. He asks "then, who?"

He walks forward following the prints set in stone. At the end he finds a creature no bigger than he tending to a garden full of colors away from the beasts and birds and the breeze and the sea. The gardener walks towards him. The poet falls to his knees as he prepares for the gardener's strike. But, he simply touches the poet's ear. Like blood from a wound, sand and rocks spew. The poet can hear. His face is down, staring at the gardeners feet, they are radiant. The gardener takes the sand and the rocks and throws them out of the garden and into the sea.

"That's all behind you now," the gardener speaks. "It's down under the sea" The poet stands to his feet and sings, "thank you for the hope you've given me."