A land stretches bare before my eyes,  

woven with golden grass, tough from time.  

Scattered thorns crown stick-thin trees,  

silent watchers in the heat’s slow climb.  

 

To the left, an old acacia sways,  

wide and worn, its branches home  

to birds that hum forgotten songs,  

soft against the air’s dry moan.  

 

Green fights brown in a losing war,  

choking under the dust-filled sky.  

Yet in the heart, an ostrich moves,  

its feathers stirred, its footsteps light.  

 

The sun hangs low, a molten eye,  

pulling shadows long and thin.  

Gazelles flicker, weightless ghosts,  

their dance a whisper on the wind.  

 

A lone jackal lingers near,  

ears sharp, its hunger still—  

watching, waiting, reading signs,  

as life bends but never breaks.