The Desert
The desert holds a certain beauty rare.
A little rain will make the flowers grow.
For sleeping seeds that lay there dormant bare
can rise up showing wondrous colors so.
For ever changing dunes that wild wind blows
against the lodgings made of clay and stone.
Men hide in homes from screaming sirok woes,
their beasts cringe low in fright and softly moan.
A lonesome place of spikes and cactus kinds,
where rattlesnakes do seek for pry at night,
where dry and sandy gully plays and winds
a steep path going nowhere toward the right.
To stay on beaten tried path seems the way.
Another by your side if we do stray.
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