Sands

The silver moon

Shines down upon

The silent desert dunes,

Like a lighthouse on a calm sea.

And the cool night winds of this barren place,

The only bearers of news.

A campfire in a corner somewhere

To warm the hands of these weary travelers,

Who huddle and speak in hushed tones

As though trying not to wake

The great sleeping wasteland.

The camels have little to eat

And even less to drink.

And all around

Just out of earshot,

The Sahara whispers

Words in an ancient language.

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