Goats and camels
My caravan moves on sand dunes
to cross the desert of hunger and want.
Give a sharp prick, draw the pure blood
and don’t cry at the sight of violence in the sky
I am not going to die.
It is galloping dark
there is absolute stillness in the air
and I have fallen in love
with the whistling breeze.
Somebody is pawing,
clawing at my back
as if trying to maul the back of a denuded totem.
Moon is watching helplessly...
An owl on a branch looks straight,
flaps, flies away.
Unpeeled clouds are now walking away.
Dew will settle among the thirsty fields.