’Twas forty-days of the journey long,
long, long; dragging through the desert.
Boots worn thin and tired from hurt.
Sand between toes tires even the strong
as they travel wearily cross the dunes.
No food but Words, swirling within.
A morsel of water to calm the gullet,
and no bed but a mat, covered in sweat.
Trudging along with mind far from sin,
where are you going through suns and moons?
A weak crippled goblin stands idle by.
“Drink from the juice of the cactus,” he says.
“Its water shall ease you as you progress.”
But if bitten, by thorns you may surely die.
You’ll walk in thirst for some more afternoons.
At last, you arrive at the shattered old cave.
The journey has led to the fountain you sought.
With the stone rolled away, endless water you’ve caught.
For the One in this tomb with the power to save
isn’t here anymore; and a dove softly croons.
