Polished on the whetstone of monsoon withheld,
The air now stabs at bones along spine
And drills little deserts in ribs.
Listen with intent and perhaps you’ll hear
Sand that oozes on banks of my veins
And heaps little dunes along shore.
Reared in gardens of apple-blossom days,
I am no Bedouin on steed.
Hence I am tired of dredging my veins
To search for miniscule moments of peace
Which still are drowned in barrels of sand,
Bare and barren to the core.
Resigned at last to my mummified state
These are my bricks for pyramids on page.