Desa Kuram

The sand storm fades,
and i suppose my barbaric intentions
have left you fulfilled and content
underneath our furs;
but visions plague me
while in your arms.

The stars call out,
telling me to leave:
do not head to the north
where water hides a sun,
where hides a tan bleached temple,
cracked and parched, bled dry.

Do not linger in Desa Kuram.

Do not stay in Desa Kuram.

But the sand storm fades,
as we lay in our tent, love.

And you lick your lips,
cracked and parched,
speak ragged words,

"Desa Kuram".