The wind lures;
A sensation of damp stone and dark leaves,
Of tamed sand, the musk of moist fur.
The rain grasps,
caught behind the mountain,
bound at the horizon.
Once, our land never thirsted,
it’s scarred, shale from the liquid age,
these spines, burrowed in the clay,
from when we still tapped stone ceilings.
But when finally we emerged
you left us,
now to gnaw smoothed, hollow bones.
Bleach the gold from the skies,
Devour the sand smeared in our lungs,
for the sun scorches our tongues to stones.
We of the wind and the sand and the sun:
We of the sage and the stone:
We, the gaping maws below the mountain.