Lone Journey

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.