Can you hear the whistlings of the sand
Flown humming, the outstand bringing high
the Biblical diaspora?
The vexing curves above which strangers
huddle between anointed hands.
And in each hand,
through each of the unmuted pulses
the dividing flow kept,
Only mornings and the figurative slept.
Inconsistent sound waves, waking to snooze
Carry on the vexing curves above sandy looms;
Welled between that, the mouth of a taklobo,
Above which strangers huddle between anointed hands.
