In the cool of the night a voice, a whisper on the sands, and I heard melody in my dreams. The smoke of the fire rose and twisted in the air. What shapes there formed, I cannot tell, but the dark billows wove around the stars. How cold the desert feels at night. There are things beneath the sands that rise up and trouble the sleeper; things of darkness and not of light. I have groaned on my bed in nightmares of desire, and the sweetness of lies feel like warmth.
Then the sun rose and washed away the false visions. There was real heat, and I saw the broken soul of the desert, lost in battles of extremes. A necropolis, these sands are the dust of ages and kingdoms God has judged. The whispers of the night cannot be recalled, but the soul remembers the ghost’s longing touch.
Shall I make union with death? And will a child be born from the grave? You are very beautiful, but your kisses leave me cold; there is no comfort in your caresses. Leave off your embraces. I will not lie with you again.
Tale Told 