I gazed across the wasted plain—
A dry land south of Damascus.
I wanted to smell the perfumed
Scent of its vanished oases.
I wanted to see grasses sway
As sheep grazed and camels fattened.
I longed to see golden hamsters
Basking in the Syrian sun.
But, that era has passed away,
Gone with its gazelles, now only
Found in old scrolls of ancient times,
Or The Bible, or stories told
Throughout time by desert nomads.
As in a moonscape bare, burnt brown,
No lizard darted rock to rock.
No pasture grew. No small creature
Raced off to out-run the quick fox.
The fierce heat burned. There was no shade.
That great barren span on the road
Between Damascus and Amman
Warned me, as in a dreaded dream.
*****
Fifty years have faded and passed,
But not the greater lesson learned
From that dry and lifeless expanse.
Now I stand in my native land,
Wrapped in its rich cloak of bounty.
America—a land to tend
Like a mother tending her child.
I am one of seven billion
In our world and we multiply,
And multiply. I must work and
Hold fast to keep our treasured land
From vanishing and becoming,
A thousand years hence, only a
Far-fetched fairy tale for children.
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