Desert Dweller

A bird, a leaf, the wind.
These words linger in torchlit alleys.
Strange music flows from golden horns.
Serene blossom-scented music,
settles uncomfortably
on a blistered landscape.

Golden-eyed hag
sings from a haggard throat,
accompanied
by choruses of crusty crones.

Why do we weep? 

Like dust in the throat,
words long forgotten.
Different answers, all incomplete.
Sometimes life catches you off-guard,
then, you notice
the answer
sleeping soundly in your hand.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 286/365.