The sun above was a burning ball
In that blue and cloudless sky.
No thought of love could his soul enthrall;
The wind was scorching hot and dry.
He staggered along, his eyes t'ward the ground;
His nostrils were flared and white.
He heard a song so he gazed around,
But only the desert met his sight.
The song he'd heard was only the wind
Moaning through chaparral and brush.
Not a lizard did his way attend---
His face felt a fiery flush.
Six days he'd been out there, lost and athirst---
His lips were parched and dry.
Though the strongest of men, he wasn't the first--
In that wasteland he knew he would die.
He continued to drag but made no complaint,
He knew that this was the end.
His knees did sag, and he felt very faint---
Any hope he couldn't pretend.
He fell on his face, there in the sand,
And slowly faded away.
'Twas his resting place--no more would he stand,
For he had seen his last day.
By L. B. Strawn
May 5, 1984