There is a dried river bed, and scorpions, But there are no villages or ponds. Birds do not sing in this wilderness.
At night, darkness is pierced by searchlights, Or by the headlights Of cars moving in disciplined rows.
There are some men – silent, expressionless. The barrels of their guns glint, Under the harsh, hot desert sun.
Inside and outside stretches the desert vastness Of sand, scorpions and the sun And the birds – they do not sing in this wilderness. ***