The sun shines down hard and blistering hot on a young country,
a country ever old-young.
An ochre land, quiet, inscrutable, filled with reluctant secrets.
The inhabitants of this dry, parched land stand burnt
brown as the drifting desert sands.
They have lived in this no-man’s land as long as the
oldest man can remember
persevering through steadfast indifference.
Only as the shadows grow long
does the land soften and mellow.
Trees grow stunted by wind and dryness;
they offer but the meanest cover to the meanest man.
Desert sands sprawl in the searing sun,
pitted with the windswept prints of animals;
here the land yields but rare, stark, solemn pools of water
for all the creatures who live in bitter extremity.
Leached by the sun,
changeless is this pitiless country.
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