Like an unending sad frost in a desert night,
though sunshine didn’t reflect moisture from
scant rain all through the day; even morning
dew burnt in a hasty heat and cacti falling to
char in the noons; I live in a hope of restitution
and in the faintness of sounds of mirages
crying out to live the heat out. But I am just
caught out by an inclemency that knows not
day and knows not night. I will believe in nothing
till the flowers of spring sprout out on these dunes
And if they don’t, what should I make of faith
if faith is fated to fail like mist in an industrial
smog? Am I a child of veracity in the dampness of
a civilisation that feels like a sewer? Or is there a gradient
cheer in the deceitful motheaten fabric of hillocks of life,
that will calm the grounds with a serenity that my travails
are not altogether fruitless!
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