Sahra

Cold drums wait by fading fire,
Holding for a morning warmth.

Thick canopy shades the stars
as they tremble through the camp,

With smoke and crackling breeze
from the dunes that breathe.

Skies open, and cry, with light,
on the figures wrapped beneath.

Their time comes, and goes,
and still comes again for a

flood of early bright that
wakes the burden’s beasts,

And drowns the hearts of men
in the glory above.

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