The horizon is hidden by waves;
Above, the chief wins way
Surveying everything
Like a scorching spy,
We are walking in a sigle file
Wrapped in the animal smells
And in our body odors.
The desert is breathing out
Directly on our faces;
The thought of every traveller
Becomes his own tornment.
A pair of snakes, tightly knitted;
One is trying to bite the other.
By Takis Pierrakos
187800cookie-checkTHE CARAVAN | TAKIS PIERRAKOS
