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walking through
this desert hardpan
like the fathers of old

just a red-eyed man
calling out to the great
Saint Anthony's ghost

asking him;
whats wrong with
me sir? my heart has
a place at two tables -
for one seat i bought
and for one i sold

its strange to know

that the ascetic is
really just a monster
who learned the art of
caging himself

its strange to know

that the real
heroes are not
those who are
good but choose
to do good

and that

virtue is for
the one who
fights away
darkness by
fighting away
his own

its strange to know

that although i walk
these dunes in pursuit
of the pools deep down
i know that the only thing
i really want to drink
is the sand itself

whats wrong with me sir?

and whats wrong with them?

because its strange to know

that all the hills are burning
and they don't even know