The quiet breeze blows the birds astray the foliage rocks the nest The edge of time is nudged an inch towards the greedy west
The sand shifts grains along the dune the scorpion’s on the prowl The desert cannot hold its heat the jackal starts to howl
The hands that put the Sun to flight the guiltier since the Flood the same hands rubbed together now are reddened with its blood
The stage stands robbed of actors now the vacuum crowds the womb The drama must be played by ghosts The theatre sets: its tomb
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