What dance are we dancing,

alone in the bleeding sand,

my brother?

Who are we killing with these swords     

          in our hands? Ourselves,

                                     my brother.

Whose death ever quenched

this arid land,

my brother?

The dance moves us ‘round and ‘round

in the ancient sand,

my brother.

We should serve one another

in our Master’s land,

my brother.

              Reach for my hand ~ reaching for your

                        hand in the weeping sand,

my brother.

 © 2012, Vicky M. Semones