The cradle of infant beginnings
the bed - scorching and inhospitable - in which
the human babe cries to life
the future tyrrant cooing, the future friend in
I'm going to fashion you a pen
from the fallen feather of our epic's stork
and you shall write and weep joy
on the heartbeat of our history,
with the billion stones of our scorching desert cradle,
between your toes.
Take me with you when you go, to write and weep joy in the desert,
we'll add our puny voices to the boom of our ancient echo,
we are your futures!,
who will follow us,
what mysteries, none know,
this wonder, the adventure, what greatness.