The Desert

…And in his benevolent essence, the desert fell in love:

He fell in love with the moon, with her beauty and solitude, with her splendor and sincerity, and at every moment he would repeat his love to her, but she couldn't hear him, she was too far away, and never was he able as time passed by to climb high and declare his love.  That is why he sought refuge with his friend the sun, who still remembered the beauty of its friend the moon and would share memories of her with the desert until the hour to sleep...  Now he only watches her through the corner of his eye, well he is hurt...

He fell in love with the night, with her darkness, with the same agonizing womb, with space and with conscience.  Never could he kiss her because the day loved her immensely, more than any of its horizons.  Now the desert only talks with her when her companion hides under her skirts, they still tell tales to each other about life and death.

He fell in love with the wind, with its happiness and freedom.  Never was the desert able to communicate with it.  Well, the air was a minstrel and it liked to run excessively rapid, desired adventure, glided through the sandy hills until it vanished.   The desert became annoyed, well every time the air raced through the dunes it would raze with its body.

He fell in love with the plants, with their life that they emanated, with their own essence, with their power and beauty that they exhaled.  Never was he able to caress them because rapidly they would die in his interior.

He fell in love with the fire, with courage and with free will, but it was impossible to feel it close, well he would become confused with his own ardor.

So, when he didn't know what else to do and felt forgotten, he ceased searching.  One day the desert found the sea.  She made love to him for hours, she consumed him, she drained him, she filled him, she gave him eternal life, and for all the nights of the world, and for all the living days, they discover from the deep and the vast, to transform into becoming one.

Poetry by Sandra Loewe (friend of Seasun)

Cuernavaca-Morelos  October 18th, 1999