Taking the brim or cleaning the desk of old texts, polishing until they shine as statues of alabaster.I am reading T.S.Elliott again, Wasteland.
Waste as the sand of the desert I crossed with the Palestinian driver who drove me all the way from Jerusalem until the bridge to Jordan. The way through desert, a wasteland of derelict dreams and unwritten poems, traces in the sand of the lost army of Cambyses, who sent into the war 50000 men who were swallowed by the sand.
In my inner wasted landscape people gather around small fires and warm themselves, the fire is good, they say, you must burn to grow.
Ana
