The stinging stone for air and phantoms for men Cruel water for a tease and a steady flaming sun Like a slow heavy ocean the tides of earth march on in As if doors were open for the grains to stay But in the heart of the matter In the silence of the sand There is no voice No touch Not even loss Though I repaired the wall and carried the stones Still the desert bleeds as if washing its wounds clean As it needs It happens and nothing else As it needs No treachery in the wall No hostility in the sand No conspiracy in the wind No demands at the door My hands do the work wrong or my tongue addresses the wrong gods I don't know Maybe it is not just the sand It is simple hate eating already bleeding hands