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I object to the allegory of time as sand;

finding honey more apt.

Time does not fall through the fingers to

mix indistinguishably with its fellows.

It lingers,

waiting, clinging, relentless,


hands are scrubbed clean.

The abrasive grit is soon forgotten;

the honey never leaves.

Sticky residue remains and even longer lingers the sweet scent.

I press my hands to my face

breathing deeply.

Maybe this is religion,

Maybe this is time,

Maybe I’m just a child with sticky hands.

Ellen is a 15 year old aspiring academic from the West of Ireland. She would like to know why.

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Published in issue 5


Published in issue 5


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