The man is in a plateau’d valley,
It stretches between the rising humps of desert beasts.
The expanse is full of dust it shimmers but is not hot,
An endless wind shifts all traces of life.
It is cold in Sunlight and bitter by Moon,
The Children wear dead Fathers shoes.
No-one here knows his name or that he exists,
He might die and not be found.
He holds a handful of golden grains and lets them fall away,
He sits to curse The Bone White sky, and waits.