Leave your shell for the men who roam.
Pick up sticks, the coffins of the playground.
Like mankind through the ages
you've moved,
leaving behind frail porcelain figures
that wane at your wake.
Poems follow you like rivers,
writing your path in the sand.
Hands draw your reflection as they whittle away the clouds.
Camels sip at puddles as they form
behind you--
drinking your thirst for their lives.
After this they'll go without water forever;
their tears forming tunnels in the molten leftovers of your design.
Some would fight time to pull you back.
We follow your coffin like lost soldiers on the Saharan plateau.
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