Pale, alien curves suspended in each grain,
A desert stretches before and behind me,
Which hot and laboured winds blow forth,
They wrap and confine me in blissed warmth,
Though my shadow's passing stain,
Is left for all to hold, to see,
My time within these sands is short,
Of little worth against the storm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem