Kalahari Blues Poem by Martin Lochner

Standing here on a flat land that verges on desert but never
Softened into smooth dunes and even slopes of sand

A place where the wind races from the Atlantic with full drift
but humbles itself as it enters measureless expanses of the Kalahari

swirling over stones and rocks and pushing rootless thorn bushes
rolling them about for no reason except to confirm their absurd existence

the flux leaves and silence settles over the stark face of a divorced
landscape that is not even moved by the sad yelp of the lonely jackal