Not too close but with distance
an image I see as I scan,
broke up into bits and pieces
to emerge in the shape of a man,
as a figure come out of the Negev
with nothing but sand to inspire,
as a nobody riding a camel
to a Prince in royal attire,
mirage to distort his progress
led both through a lake of a lie
for the heat made wet from a blistering sun
no blistering sun would deny,
as his camel would last forever
to drink an eternal well
when the sky is raw from the midday sun
and the midday sun is like hell,
when he crossed the devil’s anvil
he had come from a temperate clime,
what hammered him out to his resolve
as a ghost from the passage of time,
a waterhole to remember
and crackling fire on the sands,
for the desert is cold when crowded with stars
that he holds in the palm of his hands;
the camel complains in the rising
as in rising so long ago,
as they fade to the east and the dawning
how time will forget to show.
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