The old path asked them:
You who bear on your shoulders
sandals cut of palm leaves,
where are you headed?
Do you not see that the desert
is coming towards you
with all its gear?
Why, therefore, are you striving
to tread on me barefoot?
It won’t help me, your sweat
dripping a fast pace
towards the fata morgana,
nor will your prayers
help the rainfall.
Your limping steps on
my tracks touch me lightly.
They will not leave traces
on my skin to guide others
to the river. I, too, in truth,
have sickened over the years
of your scorn for me. Therefore,
I have made up my mind
to annihilate myself
of my own free will
in my sands. Yet who will
guide me to the way back
if I change my mind?