The stinging stone for air and phantoms for men
Cruel water for a tease and a steady flaming sun
Like a slow heavy ocean the tides of earth march on in
As if doors were open for the grains to stay
But in the heart of the matter
In the silence of the sand
There is no voice
No touch
Not even loss
Though I repaired the wall and carried the stones
Still the desert bleeds as if washing its wounds clean
As it needs
It happens and nothing else
As it needs
No treachery in the wall
No hostility in the sand
No conspiracy in the wind
No demands at the door
My hands do the work wrong or my tongue addresses the wrong gods
I don't know
Maybe it is not just the sand
It is simple hate eating already bleeding hands
