Joshua Nicolás Prits

Dewdrop dune, honey sands,
I see the summer beneath 
Shamanic eyelids. I envision
 
An etching of the sunset, wishing for watercolor. 
Housed hills under fire. Succumbing
To distant siege setting the overwhelming sun.
 
Past Oasis, everliving in fond recollection,
The signage mentions souls buried below,
Past Oasis, have you not heard the news?
 
We, the smiths of dialogued plot
Come from your grainy waves,
The mounds of sand in traverse.
 
Abyssinia, Abyssinia, The tired roads.
Steps to Sahara direct to the Gobi,
Our gold-tipped tongues sigh eternity.