The sun was a freshly-dug

grave– like its soil, tender and soft.

And on the verge of a vast abyss we–

dead or still living–

lined up waiting

for the echo’s return from the wind.

From the desert the sun was lifting

like an old village granny,

the sun reached the heavens

we made our ascent–

to our homeland, the stork’s nest

perched on the dried and brittle point.