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.