A wasted land of crushed debris,
winded whispers, woe is me.
The parched land thirsts for some relief,
Shattered dunes of a past belief.
The grains of sand composing time,
draining love’s last pantomime.
The wind picks up and blows away,
the soft, gold hills of yesterday.
The God of sand and sun and sea
creates land begun in mystery.
The last few specks of dust remain,
jaded sand without a stain,
parched soul thirsting for the rain,
desert filled with sunsets slain.