Thoughts without soul

Eyes that do not gleam

Men of honour absent

Natives of a dry expanse

Knowing only as one

To whom nothing is known

These are the has-beens

These are the dead-within.

 

A homestead built on dreams

Dreams of Death Valley

Night-time awakenings

Quench the thirst with sand

Sing the serenade

Sing to hollow trees

Sing to solid stone

And silence – a friend.

 

This is the rock-land

The land of sheep

This is the grave-land

Where fools stumble about.

The cowards stand

They make no mark

The scarecrows flap shirts

in stinking breeze.

 

“It is I,” says the raven

“I have come to point you home.”

So slight the response

So pathetic are the men

Whose souls have no thought

With hearts of charcoal

And brains of chalk.

“We have our home,” comes the reply.