The trees have faded, the bushes sparse.
No grass grows on this withered plain.
Dunes loom above, pale as gold,
or red as blood in the dwindling day.

I walk due south under beating sun.
Sweat pours off me 'til I remember no cool.
Hot is the ground beneath my feet
but soon even it feels numb and none.

Far off, uncharted, I see some green,
a place of safety, a place of rest.
Shady trees and cooling pools
beckon my wants and I run there.

How many dunes did I pass until,
shaken, I fell into the sand
that burrows under skin and hair -
rough shards of glass that steals my soft.

I close my eyes, feel me burn.
Tears might come had I the will.
But on my knees I just rest
as withered hopes fly on the wind.

Tired of sleep, silent on hurt,
I've already dried up my tears.
And sitting here, I leave my pain
build up the wall of hardened clay.

The wind hits me now, sharp-tongued it is,
biting wounds into my wasting flesh.
I walk on fire, on moving pins
but on I travel towards the mourn.

Stone surrounds my aching frame.
No longer can I feel this heat.
I see no green, nor red, nor gold
just cool grey and a dark blue hue.

And up ahead I see those tress
with dates so plump, and water so blue.
Yet on I walk, steadfast I be -
no hope dare take me from that goal.

On I trek, a battered soul,
on a jaded desert with hardened flesh
for I'll not open that hidden hope
even if I know no water again.