You’re dying of thirst.
Already the desert buzzards
are trying to peck at you.
Impatient. They’ve waited too long
For your unavoidable death.
“Maybe…
There might be an oasis
If I manage to crawl
One more metre. “
You’ve told yourself this,
One hundred and fifty-nine times
You are paralyzed
With exhaustion and thirst.
You close your eyes
And lay down for the last time
As a friend and, Mortal, Human and birdmeal
The buzzards swoop down to feast.
Their stomachs become
Your temporary burial ground.
Hunger satiated,
The birds drink from the oasis
One meter away
To wash you down.
One hundred and sixty metres.
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