The sun glares down
Over lost, weary travellers,
Casting crimson
Over the rolling dunes.
Their shadows
Fall upon the sand;
An ocean of tiny little grains—
Moving,
Always moving
Under the wind,
Like travellers themselves—
Millions of them,
Moving,
Shifting,
Changing,
Constantly inconstant.
The lines atop the dunes—
The divide where light and dark
Separate,
Alter their shape
With the shifts in the sand,
Wriggling like a snake.
This view,
This world
Of rolling dunes,
Stark segregations of light and dark,
Sandy, cutting winds,
Was not made for strangers—
For these poor wanderers.
They wander,
Like tiny ants,
Upon an endless, reddened landscape,
So far from their nest—
Made up of grand structures,
Taller than they are vast,
Crafted carefully,
Brick by brick.
Unshifting,
Unchanging,
Stark and clear against the sky.
Far too compact
To allow room for wandering.
Glass and stone—
A wall against the winds.
A place
Where these strangers weren’t strangers.
It was there—
Right there.
Standing above the dunes,
Reaching out of the sand
Into a pink expanse of clouds.
But no,
These strangers
Remain strangers,
Wandering a world
Of harsh beauty
And wondrous irregularity.