So now, the shrieking steel will fly.

A boom, a rip and then a sigh

and where it falls the young will die

bleeding and torn, on sand.

There, their lives will gush away

and lips that bleed will softly pray

for God and mother’s arms to stay

the awful fear and pain.

 

Sand will hold them close instead,

no crooning voice, no sterile bed.

Just sand, now damp where they have bled,

Drifts, fill a staring eye.

Small creatures that; crawl or fly,

will gather where the corpses lie.

To feed on those who fight and die,

in shrouds of tears and sand.

 

But those who plot this awful scene

will preach, on TV or a screen,

how  just their cause, in words obscene,

to fill men’s hearts with lust.

Lusts as old as desert time.

The lust of power, gold or slime

that lies beneath, in anticline.

The power, that feeds power.

 

They call on Gods, and wonder why,

no flash of lightning fills the sky,

in answer to their greedy cry.

They only hear, the sand.

Sand in ageless whispers, tell

of men long gone, another hell,

made by men, they do this well,

then died there in the sand.

 

The grating grains, a sifting sound.

Drifting shroud becomes a mound,

that moves like water, over ground

but cannot quench your thirst.

North wind blows an ancient grain

The south wind blows it back again.

The sand is always shifting

but the view  remains the same.

 
 

David Garlick, Sidney, March, 2003