Dying Generations

I listen to the surfing tide
Escaping through a thousand stones;
The still dim stars its pallor hide
In their pale hands, sitting beside
The thin fire of the tide.

They sit in the dark sky for ever,
Holding to earth's hearth-flowering tide
The palms of their pale hands;
A frail, reflected eventide
Sparkles and dwindles in the sands.

A myriad Buddhas in the sky
At prayer with pale, uplifted hands
When the Sun died:
The crying, myriad-peopled sands
Quiver and vanish in the tide.