Cry not you lousy endless desert
You belong only to the wretched sand
Cast in dunes by your lamenting wind
Camels, caravans, people and horses,
Set foot on you, only to pass by, not stay,
As you yearn to be their home, they go away
As long as you live, say 'only the wind is mine'
For it sings for you, your lament all night, and,
Makes the dunes dance, to a harrowing tune divine
Oh! Conceited wind, whose lament do you sing?
If, of the desert’s, why sing it to her, Can’t you take it away?
Why remind her, forever, of her own pain?
Oh! Conceited wind, your tunes are many, so I hear,
It smells of flowers, it smells of salt, It smells of blood,
And your tunes and the dunes change, as your fragrance does
“Conceited you call me?” rebuked the mocking wind
What of me you know? Where I started or anything so?
And why I blow? What I sing? And what I bleed, do you know?
What of blood, you know, my dear sensible one?
And what of the suckers that drew the blood sans mercy?
Making many scream and flee for life, on rafts of hurry,
Mutilated, holding on to dear hope to keep life, bleeding salty tears,
What you know of the unseen salt? The sea that holds it, and its bitterness,
What you know of the tears of a million souls that the rivers delivered,
In tattered rafts, with maimed parts, numbed hearts and bodies devoid of souls,
And all the tears that their eyes shed and their eyes did not, but the heart did
And when they died and became food for fishkind,
What of those wreaths you know, wise one?
Made of roses, whose enchanting dye is but the blood,
Of those that wore them when alive, so they could wear once dead too?
And what of flowers, roses you know? Also what of their fragrance?
Fragrance is the blood of flowers,
And thorns they’re the flowers of blood
For those that grew in the company of thorns,
Blood stained spears are but a brother ahead,
Loathe them? Would the lips smile? Of a man long dead?
The spears draw blood of many, cause agonizing pain,
The many flee on rafts, to the sea that buries them and their salt,
And the wreaths on them is made of their own blood,
To remind there is only pain, no time, future, present or past
I lament not, for I have no lament of my own,
My lamentation is the world still has so much to lament
The lament of the sea and the gardens, I tell the desert,
And the laments of the desert, I rain on the sea,
Saying so, the wind started,
The wind that I had made to sadly lament,
To some mountain or river or garden it could tell,
Of the pain a fool that knew nothing gave it,
As it went away, the desert pleaded, sand hands raised highest
Lo! The wind left the desert, for seemingly, for her, I was there
All her tear laden pleas went in vain, the wind left,
The haunting tunes made way for a deafening hum,
In a while, the humming died down too, just numbing silence,
Having lost its only companion, her heart, the wind who so well knew,
The dunes flattened down to a forlorn expanse of lifeless sand,
Like the many whose story the wind told her, the desert died too
