The Old Nomad

As the rain pours its fury
In a city, asleep in its clamor
As thoughts begin to wave
As the colour begins to fade
Stands there, an old nomad
With words made of clay,
Washed away, in stones
To keep them alive
As the desert begins to dance

An old signboard in its neon lights
Carries it no meaning, these words
Come here they all,
With visions and of dreams
Write as much as you can
Asleep its inhabitants to no avail
As the rain pours its fury
Stands there the old Nomad
Hidden in words made of clay
To keep them alive,
In its tune and in its heat

Stands there, an old nomad,
Not a soul, not a voice
As the rain pours its fury
In its madness, the flow
Someday they will understand,
As he wraps up that fury,
Knows he only of its worth
Inside, for years, untouched
By the rain or the city,
Words made of clay
As the dance begins,
Of winds and thoughts
As the desert keeps it alive
The old nomad and his struggles!


Kashkin