Dune Dance

The desert doesn’t pretend to care

That its sand scours your eyes.

If the wind makes those swirling grains look like


Or vapor

Sweeping off the Earth to meet its parents in the absent clouds,

It’s only through coincidence.

Under the sun it behaves unusually,






With no goal,

And no regard to your assumptions of its character.

The dunes are neither distinct,

Nor inclined

To resist affable zephyrs

And sizzling currents;

There’s no treasure to hide beneath them.

The dunes get bored and sigh with the breeze,



When they’ve seen enough

Of this ray of light

Or that shrub,

And abandon their interim homelands.

There’s nothing left to see;

The shadows admit their sterility with me,

And just like that I’m their friend,

And by that they’re flattered,

And by that they’re not interested.

There’s nothing left to do;

This place can only coax so much

Out of heat, sky, and sand.

My words try to paint an inkling of truth here,

Yet the desert is still more sincere


-Shaakya Vembar


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