By Mount Ybba Moghrair Poem by Roy Ballard

Inflaming at the end of night,
a sudden blaze of hostile light,
the sun comes darting on the tents,
the savage spires, the wild ascents
and barren lands where Moghrair stands.

No morning call of bird nor dove
foretells the flight of stars above;
the distant mountains fade and quiver,
they ripple on a molten river
and morning comes with beating drums.

A dry wind hurries down the waste;
it chokes the breath, it shrivels taste,
the earth is cracked, the body spent;
a fiery light pours through the tent
and all thoughts yearn the night's return.

Can dusk be far? The air turns cool.
The cold moon rises from a pool
of airy deeps with purple trails
of starry gowns and lacey veils
then like a bride comes eventide.`

The herder, weary of the sun,
gives thanks to God the day is done.
He goes to find the common fire,
a cup, a song, the heart's desire,
refreshing rest and talk of rain.
Dawn brings the deadly rays again.