Still winds,
on the dead land,
the air stings,
when you drown in sand.

Rocks and crevices,
so far as the eye can see,
to the untrained eye,
that's death at sea.

Finding shelter,
where you can make one,
keeping water,
away from the sun.

Only dust and echoes in the land of the dead,
no moisture, to touch my tongue,
nothing but sand and dirt,
no bodies possible,
nothing left to be said.

Follow the mountains,
stay in their shadows,
treacherous as they might,
dangerous as they are,
deadly as they will be,
some where there,
is a secret.

A secret waiting.

To be.
Set.
Free.

Can you hear their cries?
The cries of the dead and dying?
In the desert sand?
The sandy sea?
Can you stand in the still wind,
and still be...

Comfortable?