"My father is a shell. My father is dead." Droplets fall from her brown Skies. Eats ripe grapes that would have been wine. "Stories are all we have. Don't you understand?" "Stop saying that." Trembling. A lonely winter Alder, shaken by Northern winds Here in the land of endless sun Where heroes go to die for women And Water; God and glory. Forks clang against porcelain plates Cutting wedges of watermelon, its Black seeds float in pink sweet juices Nearby desert aches for the sowing Soon to be suffocated with parched tan Sand. Voices cry out 'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' "Now. What do you have to tell me?" A bastard prophet, wanders, thirsty For truth. Removes his sandals, weeps Gnawing the earth, as the desert catches Ablaze. "I can't. Not here. Not now." "I already know." A Heaving like rock slides. Tumbling. Rolling. Crashing. Thrashing. Echoes. Silence. "I'm leaving you."