.I watch  the steamed, burning, sands    
They are carrying an immortal lover upon their stomach. They
are longing for a reunion with the tired body lying upon
them
They are both can nearly hear one's breathing, appearing in
the restless form of cold desert breeze. Neither of them
knows weather it was their own sigh or their partner's.
After so many years they truly wonder weather or not it
mattered.
Her body, cooling from the high noon's sun, has grown hills.
Dunes of pure passion..  As if she desperately wanted to
show her companion her longing to him.
He, for what it counts, is leaning on top of her with the
tender grace, so typical to tired old men taking advantage
of his near death. Yet, his death-fortunately, is taking his
time.
I can not help myself from quoting a great author who once
said (threw the suffering voice of one of his characters, of
course) that death stands near his victims for their whole
life. Like them, he grows old, and forgets to let them go.
I am writing my visions now. For they tend to fade and soar.