Out here alone,
I, under the sun's burden, burn.
The mountains, so far flung,
barely in view, like a mirage,
a mystical memory that can't quite seem to be,
serve as a compass,
a direction to hope for; a reflection of me -
Waiting on a vision,
looking for a sign,
where 40 days mingle with 40 nights,
I scan the land, and find,
not an angel anywhere in sight.
My tears fall like stones
and lay upon the cracked earth.
I drop to my knees,
trying to retrieve them, but
they melt away, ever departed;
like an endless storm blowing,
never content to stay
where they started...
Though I thirst, I can't even touch
the water, over there -
In great silence a whirlwind passes by.
The dry is like dirt born from above.
I long for a drink, and a word...
but out here, in the desert,
none is given, none is heard.
Accordingly, as one must,
I await the bloom,
fearing, it may not be soon -