For some time now, I haven't heard from the Master, and he most know that our sails are waiting for that wind to come so we can sail away and beyond the literary horizon to respond to new muses call and find new better words...

From the top of Cheops pyramid
you can see the Sahara’s sands
going away forever, without end
like a expanse of King Midas land,
build twenty-seven centuries before
the one walked and was called Christ,
then it was nothing to see or hear
but the peaceful murmur of the Nile
and a few palm trees giving shadows
to the relentless pounding of the sun,
you were free to roam, not a slave,
it will come long after, with man.

Plato was there to peruse the books
of Alexandria, to learn and to write,
until a misguided Sultan ordered,
because all of it wasn’t in the Koran,
the very first burning of the books
which we were to witness many times,
it was then that all the world’s scribes
hearing all the burnings books cry,
started to chisel poems on stones
which couldn’t be destroyed by fire,
with golden letters, unending wisdom,
blessed constantly by muses and gods.

Maybe the Master is asleep, please
tread if you must around, but very light,
his muse are whispering the words
that he will tell all of us after a while,
when the ink gets warm by the candle
and a fresh cut will be on his quill,
about the wonders when is a melting
in the horizon, dunes of very hot sands,
as they receive a tired sun that put
on their golden bosom, his head down;
the Master will tell when and where
his literary gold he will provide.

For now, tread lightly, because his
sleeping soul is traveling down the Nile.