I sit in this bare room
Solitary and at rest;
As outside the howling wind of this desert night
Tells of the frailty of cement and stone
Whose brittle, futile element
Offends the sanctity
Of this November night
And then the next night comes
Silent, placid, a shimmer of the moon or sand.
Just the grating of shovel and pick
Breaking the silent outline of the land.
And the menace and excitement creeps in
Like the colds thru your overcoat,
As you stand hunched between barracks and dunes,
Silhouetted by the desert moon
And watched by desert starlight.