In the distant golden desert,
Where the scent of the dead reigns.
And the sand glimmers like gold,
With the crimson sun rays.
In the dunes of sand,
You may see the once-lively visages.
Which had now become skulls,
With the passing of cruel ages.
In the distant golden desert,
You may hear the shrieks of hawks.
Which declare their reign,
And the silent talks of rocks.
The once-pleasant ancient land,
Had now been reduced to sand.
Bound by the shackles of time,
Rings in it a silent chime.
YOU ARE READING
To Nature
PoetryIf Nature were a Woman and spring her youth, She'd cry for a Flower and die of sloth.
