His dreams, the little dunes,
ever wakeful for another storm
rise up and bend down,
little trickling sands of time
passing, meandering the winds,
and the hot wave engulfs the plateau...
There seems silence, and dismay,
and yet, in the unearthly presence
of the angelic spirit of lone black cloud,
I see smoke, dust paved on the block of charcoal,
misted, the granules move, digging a hole yet again,
dune succumb under the duress of the storm,
and the tunnel, deep and dark is dug,
hitherto unknown save to the trained eye,
and a goblet, deep to Hades' vestige forms,
misted, gravels look down,
and that lone traveller afar notices,
a single tear falls...
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