Noon. The desertsun is sitting at the summit of the sky,
glaring at the endless sands that span in front her firey eye
and there´s not a single cloud around her that she must condone,
just a squad of squawking storks is floating neath her golden throne.
Like a boat that´s built of birds, in search for cypresscrowns to land
which resemble scattered islands in this silent sea of sand.
At a waterhole´s a warthog, noticed by the nearest croc,
drinking calmly from the pond, but suddenly: A state of shock.
Fleeing flocks of rhimgazelles. A turtle imitates a rock.
And the victims bleeding nose is caught inside a lethal lock.
Groups of kudus, gnus, baboons who ring their roaring warning bells
and the arid air is full of fear and dust and death and yells.
In the distance sits and listens watchfully a fennec fox,
sheltered by a fence of thorns, upon a pile of desert rocks.
Covered under cactusshades decays a lonely nomads bone,
where the lazy lizards lie in cool and cosy homes of stone;
and the sun, relaxed as ever, crawls along her wonted trail,
like a glowing, cyclopean, billion-year-old cosmic snail.
