Slowly and slowly the wind takes over. The grains of sand still wandering to find a home before embracing a sheath of darkness; the heaps of flowing sand still dislocating every moment and trying to cover the sun that beams on it all day long, inching every moment higher and higher, before finding solace in a canopy of darkness that lures it, burying all lifelessness and life, and thwacking lifelessness on the faces of the living; all edges abraded with years of combat against the rulers of the desert: sand and the sun; the clouds still set at nought, years after the interventions of the mighty seas, still temporising and drifting off to the far of lands more fortunate, leaving the white of the skies and sucking out all the blue. For water, there is only an apparition of a few vehement waves moving up the ladders of the sky…wait, wait, wait, what? Is it a bird there? Can…can you see it? Yes, that! Give me my binoculars. Soon. God, hurry up! Yes, yes, soon! Fetch it! Wait, is it not there? Check again, there in the bag. Lord, alright, get aside, I’ll do it myself. Here, gimme the bag! Yeah, there’s rope, there’s water and…where’s my…I left that in my car! God!
Oh, is the bird there? Yes, it’s coming to this side. Ah, this sand! I can’t see it properly. How come there is this small a bird here amidst a storm? Come here, in the shed! I can barely see it now. My glasses! Oh, the winds are making it difficult for it! I don’t think it would survive. Hey, here, hold the shed, I’ll go and look if it sinks before the sand engulfs it.
Hey, here! Am I not scaring it away already? What do I do? It’s coming to this side. Yes, little one, here! Oh, look, how small it is! Yes, fly here to this side. Damn, the wind is too strong. There, look for it. Oh, where is it? Here it comes, here it comes! Great! See, it’s coming towards the shed. Oh, why the hell? It’s coming to me. Oh, oh, it’s gonna attack me. Oh, I can’t see anything. Eeee, God!
Do I open my eyes now?
Wait, where is it, in my hair? No? Shhh…shhh…shhh! Don’t scare it away!
On my shoulder? Oh, my! What do I do?
Okay, you can stop calling me a tree now.
WRITERS' POLITICS 