That was not a pilgrim's journey, inside
His eyes. The wind over the holy land,
Whispering dry conclusions to his dreams,
Burned in earthly fire the pray on his lips
And lifted to heaven the sterile intonations
Of the sand.
"That is a souls-ridden land."
Love spoke and died before the infinite
Of the desert; his tears did not suffice
To fill a pond for his urged reflections.
His inward eyes had foretold him the end:
He lacked a passion enough to name a god
Upon his death, or else a crucifixion,
Nailed at fast, on self and soul's intersection.
He sighed:
"It is a robber's death at last."
