Upturning haystacks,
Needles call,
To find the thing that lacks,
So long, thin spike,
A key or pick or pointy sticks,
This needle lost in piling hay,
This needle lost in mounting stacks,
Alas, alas, the needle is stuck sedated in surmounting shambles.
Ah! the needle calls!
A prick upon my finger slack,
It wound its way out from the stack.

A malevolent storm rouses the sand from its slumber,
And vain monuments rise from the scorched dust,
All the while these embers of the wind utter course and rocky violence.

Lashing sands blindly whip themselves into a rage,
Parched bones in a pile of yearning reflections,
They are ground down in their fury,
They seek the water too.