Bitter imagination
I know the wheels on Mendicino avenue
The saint of the rose
Where she goes alone
Only hours behind where the sun goes to set
Grown so tired
And each irrelevant question
Interminable problem
Becomes a fear hard-cast in stone
And even the weightless
Is too heavy to bear
Life is a battle
The world spins rounds of ammunition
The man pains to bring peace
To that city far west of the place I stand

There are no flowers in the desert
Only fruitless land
Barren, dry
And beautiful