The sun was a freshly-dug
grave– like its soil, tender and soft.
And on the verge of a vast abyss we–
dead or still living–
lined up waiting
for the echo’s return from the wind.
From the desert the sun was lifting
like an old village granny,
the sun reached the heavens
we made our ascent–
to our homeland, the stork’s nest
perched on the dried and brittle point.