After the war the cities were dust, and where
The desert met the sea there was no way to
Tell what was blood what was oil what was water.
Don’t listen to the wind on the sands at night—
It speaks with the rasping tongue of cracked leather,
It speaks with the voice of the cold, empty sky
And it murmurs of millions of drying bones
It will splinter for the fatty, latticed marrow—
Just run for the mountains and the outer sea.
Run now for the outer sea where the wind has
Gathered all the hope of the world at the shore
In shifting dunes held by nets of thin marram roots.