Dry the figs.

Water the camels.

Oil your skin.

The desert´s coming.

On the back of expansionist

temptation; in standard issue

imperial boots; with the one over

of the baker´s dozen,

the desert´s coming.

Tomorrow, sand and scorpions.

Tomorrow, heat-lacerated lips.

Tomorrow, a universal burning.

The desert´s coming.

It´s coming fast

and going far.

It wants nothing living

besides the rough and thorny.

The desert´s coming.

Forty days won´t stop it.

Crossing every welcome mat

it will make itself at home.

You who have loved forests;

you who have sat with streams,

pray like hell that hell refigure

its colonialist schemes

and lets earth regain

its young complexion green.