In Driest of Lands One Loses Means

I, Your bride, wish to settle

my head upon strengthened shoulders.

My burdens have labored my breath, yet

I have done nothing more than lay on

desert sand, in wait for pleasant speech.

The water canteen is empty.

I fill inside with sand beneath to know I

am not lonely.

It is clear-spring has died within,

around me.

My eyes must be deceiving this

weakening body.

But, oh sweet songs of the birds have

come to waken thee-

even the leaves are turning down,

making a path to drink from a well of

cleansing!

My bridegroom-I see You, I am coming!

Wait, please-don’t leave me this way.

Weeping over the cross from which

death called You away.

A veil of mourning covering my face,

left with Beloved dreams-

a mirage I will never touch in this

forsaken space.

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