The sands of time move like a cresting wave
over the dunes of the abyss where the wind does slave.
In this place where the maker does wade
in the dust basins for water has been forbade.
The desert mouse knows the way of the sands.
Traveling alone across the sun scorched lands.
Carrion birds out past the shield wall
feast on the blood of their own tribe.
While the storms of the land ravage the corpse,
carrying away any last remnants of being.
Water in the sands is hard to come by
but the power it holds is one I cannot deny.














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