by Michael Walton
Did those feet in ancient lands
walk upon these desert sands?
Did their chariots of fire
stain the sand with holy ire?
Did those souls in rusted chain
pray for everlasting rain?
Does this desert, gold and vast
know its own forlorn past?
The stories this sand could tell
if it could raise but a knell.
What truths we might glean
of the things that have been.
But alas! These endless grains
bury gods beneath their plains.
The desert now, so long divine,
swallows everything in time.
