The Sun is dire and bites His sandy teeth
Into the burnt and the discourteous.
If you forget to tell us that you've sneezed
The devil will devour you in hell.
The sky is but a face that hides His shame,
In burqas made of promises and cloud.
If you or I were one day to awake
Our blood might chill at all the mocking air.
The desert kindly tucks its child to bed
And never mind the fact of naked bones.
If mystery's the reason for my life,
The One who writes it gives some dreadful clues.
     See, any spectral hand who wants for care
     Is something for which something must be done.