you walk through dry pastures
admired by the ghosts of dead civilizations;
resting in a sand-dusted corner
you savour the wine
as it wets men's throats
without twitching a nerve.
You make a fool of the camel
who insists on appearing satirical;
being so strong as to let
pockets of stabbing light
pierce your pools of welcome shade.
you are never totally surprised
and with a shrug of the shoulders
say: 'Let us get on with the job!'