Soul

At night, in each curve of the funeral rite and beneath it,
warm desert wings beat upon the sand,
the bandit grows restless, his bare feet hesitant and ready for procession;
and there lie the scattered lonely stars of heaven's funeral;
and there, upon the warm sand—an oasis, hovering over water too!

Above my life's desert, beneath sorrow's bend, some unfortunate associations;
in them my grieving mind has grown melancholy,
my empty feet are torn;
and there, despair's hopeless tracery, alongside hope's light;
and there, in that very desert of my life,
my soul's bright multitude wrapped in shrouds!