A desert lay beneath great blue sky,
where thorn-stars burned and rivers dry
had long forgotten how to run
beneath the gaze of moon and sun.
No bird would nest, no flower grow,
the dunes moved where the winds would blow;
and all who dwelt within that land
called endless waste their native strand.
They gathered thistles in the night
and named them constellations bright,
believing all the world was sand,
for none had seen a greener land.
Yet far beyond the barren shore
there rolled a sea forevermore,
whose silver tides, both deep and wide,
embraced the earth on every side.
And sometimes, from that distant blue,
came travellers with eyes of dew.
They crossed the waste with quiet grace,
salt air still lingering on each face.
No banners flew above their way,
they neither preached nor chose to stay;
yet from their cups, with every mile,
fell drops that vanished for a while.
The desert laughed: "What good are these,
against my dunes and centuries?"
The travellers smiled and journeyed on,
from sea they came, to sea were gone.
But deep below the burning ground,
where neither root nor spring was found,
the sleeping seeds received the rain
and dreamed of living once again.
A drop, a thousand drops, and then
the hidden earth remembered when
green valleys sang and orchards flowered
before the desert's pride had towered.
One day the thorns shall bloom as rose,
one day clear water freely flows,
and all that waste the sun has known
shall bear a harvest of its own.
Then those who thought the dunes were all
will hear the distant seabirds call,
and learn the desert, bleak and wild,
was but the sea's forgotten child.
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 8:51 AM UTC
A desert lay beneath great blue sky,
where thorn-stars burned and rivers dry
had long forgotten how to run
beneath the gaze of moon and sun.
No bird would nest, no flower grow,
the dunes moved where the winds would blow;
and all who dwelt within that land
called endless waste their native strand.
They gathered thistles in the night
and named them constellations bright,
believing all the world was sand,
for none had seen a greener land.
Yet far beyond the barren shore
there rolled a sea forevermore,
whose silver tides, both deep and wide,
embraced the earth on every side.
And sometimes, from that distant blue,
came travellers with eyes of dew.
They crossed the waste with quiet grace,
salt air still lingering on each face.
No banners flew above their way,
they neither preached nor chose to stay;
yet from their cups, with every mile,
fell drops that vanished for a while.
The desert laughed: "What good are these,
against my dunes and centuries?"
The travellers smiled and journeyed on,
from sea they came, to sea were gone.
But deep below the burning ground,
where neither root nor spring was found,
the sleeping seeds received the rain
and dreamed of living once again.
A drop, a thousand drops, and then
the hidden earth remembered when
green valleys sang and orchards flowered
before the desert's pride had towered.
One day the thorns shall bloom as rose,
one day clear water freely flows,
and all that waste the sun has known
shall bear a harvest of its own.
Then those who thought the dunes were all
will hear the distant seabirds call,
and learn the desert, bleak and wild,
was but the sea's forgotten child.
31 May 2026
