A statue, stone in desert heat,
On bright white sand, with thirstburnt head,
I stand here, meaningless and dead;
Only a lizard at my feet
Is my companion consolation.
On space no thing of green will gloss,
I stand a monument to loss:
Granite and grieved in isolation.
No human heart or strength of hands,
Here petrified with ache and sorry
I stand beneath a wicked glory
Of sun combusting on the sands
But stone that feels its wounds, the gush
Of my own blood still red and pent,
As sandstorms bellow and torment
I stand here blindly, stand and hush.
But come the wind with storming whips
All through this body in despair,
By dawnlit air or evening air,
I sing a song through stonecut lips.
Not I, not I but the cruel whack
Of strange wind moves these lips. Not I,
But blows of sharp wind through the sky
Out of a land unknown and black.