To my lost she sang

A choir of a stream

In the music of the sand

Kindled at its seams.

Wider than a thar

And lonesome more than moon

Further than a far

And swooner than a swoon.

So I sat and heard

We laughed and too cried

She swore at every word

And caressed me in the nights.

The dunes were her friend

And rattle was musician

Cactus was her child and

Water was magician.

I heard her for the days

I walked along with her

When angered she dismays

Yet songs were never bitter.

So proud of her sand

And folks with whom she played

When I found my homage land

With last rhyme she swayed.

Sang, ‘I am a desert wind,

‘I sing about my all

‘If you hear I never change

‘winter, autumn or fall.’

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