A thorn grass in the Desert Zin. Thinner
Than a needle. Sucked out blue.
Alone. In sand. With those who are envious,
Who would bring him to the Moloch. Dry hue.

A whole day, at his feet, at his head —
The sun. In his scorched mind engraved,
Burned out, his dream about a drop.
The savior strays. How can you be saved?

It seems: the sun determined just
To scorch the thorn grass, to burn.
Oh miracle: livelier, longer falls its shadow
At the sun's lonely return.

So are you, poet, scorched in dread,
Time essayed to lay you waste:
Time declines lower, closer to her end,
And a long shadow falls from your waist.