The Immortal

That place in the south.
The end of a road in the sand,
Saguaros and shrubs of the desert.
An image of me in the comfort of sleep,
And the glee of reliving my waking.
To the dust and the dew
And the harvesting crew of the wakening desert.
The baskets of corn, sun burnt to the shoulder,
The skin has been torn
By the trek from the lake, to the field, to the border.
The markets, peyote and leathery skin
At the dawn of the wakening desert.
The Clergy asleep at the wheel,
As attempts are revealed
At restoring the order.
But the hungry will steal,
And the people are bound,
The bandanas reveal they are bound by their heads
To their hearts and their love for the frightening desert.
The sleaze on the streets it a classical treat,
Of tobacco’s and dyes and the colours of Christmas
On hardening feet.
But under it all is a beat that appals;
The squeal of the boots as they stamp on the hands
And the feet of the children,
Who stiffen and fight for the desert.
I find it a warning when tears cataract
From the eyes of the men who were young,
Who cry as though tied to the rack.
For the farmers know well, that an opulent well,
When it dries it will harden the ground till it cracks.
And up comes the anger, a fountain of freshness,
The splitting of seeds, and the well-seasoned bite
Of the young and
Un-killable desert.