You roam these sands alone

The scorching sun a burden on your naked skin

As you wear your mark of cain

You’ve seen as many days as grains of sand

One certainty:

You’ll soon be facing death

You drop down to your knees and to the skies you plea

And then horizon reveals to you a brilliant isle of green

Under the shade of sycamores

You find your peace

You lay your head on protruding roots

And fall asleep

You dream of tyrants rule, all the power held by you

As they all fell down to their knees

And on your tyrant's throne you finally felt at home

As if the sands were just a distant dream

But then you feel the sting of embers on your skin

You wake to see a burning isle of green