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When the sun reclaims the eastern sky
I am the Bedouin who must leave the oasis.
I need to fill my gourd,
grab all the dates I can
and plod away for the Sahel
like a camel bloated with hoarded water.

I know, in time, I will become
the pistachio seed inside
a roasted shell of sand,
brother to aridness.

When thirst comes
amidst domed shells of dunes
and wind scrubs my face,
I will smile and, hands trembling,
uncork my gourd.

      — Alexander Pepple