The written word is all I have
If I had anything else I would give it to you
Although this desert is cold during nights
-then i take off the chameleon skin and talk to the planets-
Still the ether burns in the daytime
Like wild geeze in airplane engines
Like how sanity of exile
Whispers away as conscience
Of adulterous eyes
And the weariness of being exhausts me
And how would I know how to deal with that?
Since my psychologist retired on the third visit
And left me hanging like lynched ideals from imaginary trees of life
Worn out as beggar shoes I reside in these sand storms
Feeding of the cactuses like camels in Arabia
Then I scribble subjective universal truth on worthless papyrus pieces 
Found in some back alley monastary of heretical desert fathers
And leave it for the sheep to digest
Or to ignore like thorns and thickets
In the pastures of their mind’s oasis
As my mind is all over the place
It is wandering like driftwood on the oceans
I am not yet domesticated
But the universe rocks us to sleep in the cradle of societies
We get spun together by merchant plots behind the set
Only to jog in our hamster wheels of misfortune
And revel in melancholy as do as Nordic folks and speak mundanely about the weather
Yet you don’t have to surrender 
To the passing of time
And let the desert heat make you weak and disillusioned 
So that you wander off for forty years
Awaiting unrepentant death of your murmering flesh
Just lift your eyes and elevate your trail
And I will write you the map to your ports by the ocean
Past the prisons of Gaza
Where we can all drink of the saltwater
And become the light of the world
Once and for all