I drive a long stretch of a narrow road,
pass abandoned gas stations,
and houses half standing
like sunflowers kneeling at sunset.

As I brace the road,
the dry land keeps closing in.

Then a flag appears, flying high,
planted by a proud young woman
to remember we are in the land of the free.

We were not destined to toast beneath the moon —
pure and high at night, emitting light.
It makes the curves of lovers glow,
their naked bodies grow, from midnight to noon
against the sands of a faraway desert. A playful sight:
laughter and concert, light and shadow.