Wastrel Wilderness

Wastrel Wilderness—and hear The silence in the morning, save what Wild dogs, the cruel savage, Wound in desert play and ravage. Wastrel Wilderness—the evening Often hears the death bell ringing. Too cold when the sun is hiding, Scorched and blazing in the noonday. Wastrel Wilderness, where every Soul too proud to pray for mercy, Finds this oven as their prairie— Their death-knelling adversary. One parched skull and bleaching bulwark, Screams till sound is almost certain: Will he live to reach the grassland Or to die in ruthless sand? Wastrel Wilderness—and grovel, Gasping, swearing for a breath, and— Though the life was lasting torment— Weeping, sink into the sandland. Wastrel Wilderness—and now, The gloom has set, the cold moon staring, Fiercely grim, the desert glaring, At him: willful outcast pining. Parched and bloody, hear him sighing: “Mother, open for your son, And in your dust my dust will settle. Every sweet mirage is gone.” Strike me sternly, yes, and bind me— Put the fest and rest behind me! Never will the old bones find me In the Wastrel Wilderness!