Sand clock

At 3 AM , I come upon this poem
Wonder if it is clock to come here.

Once I had no shirt on for mantras
To chant for my mother’s moksha

As she had clean break from past.
We had come here with our fears.

Come in under red rock, poet says
From over poem’s enormous past.

These rocks had an enormous past
Which was flowing as a flash flood.

But there is not the lustreless sand.
A hot sun breathes down on neck.

Come in under red rock, poet says
On the enormous past of his poem,

Promising to show fear in a handful
May be of a lustreless serene sand .

(Reading a poem “The sand” by Joseph Spece and recalling The Waste Land by T.S.Eliot)