Live the Passing Life Well

There is no place to hide from heat and light No shelter from the open desert lands of day From the exposed inquisitor, an esoteric sun The Son of man saw to that when rising up Each person starves in isolation at lands end Oceans stop by islands, little dots, accumulated there On sand, on dunes, a scorching place for bones A private ascetically ecclesiastical thing called Lent Where all things come from ashes to go back again Leaving remnants of the souls intent All good things come to and from the desert dry A curriculum celebrated to that end remembered