Its a long, dry walk
Across shifting sands
Thirsty and tired
Of all the dust and grit
Its in your boots
Your socks
Your shirt and pants
Your underwear
In your hair and up your nose
You feel it in your ear canals
Across your lips
A grungy mask you can never wash away
Like the crackling shouts
Of the Muezzin
Over the loudspeakers
Full of sand
And dust muted colors of the tattered clothes
That haunt your speckled dreams.
© Erik Hansen 2015
Edges 