A behemoth moves beneath shifting sands,
coursing passion through dried and dreary veins.

A motionless landscape starts to shudder,
as the ghostly muse pierces through the dunes.

Lifeblood spills out from the desert's surface;
pulsing red coagulates sun-burnt dirt.

Sleeping giants do not die in the subconscious. They only lie in wait until the alarm bell of life reawakens the spirit. But do not give passage to the noise, for the awakening is not always the soul's salvation. And giants, mighty as they are, can sink the desert just as they can raise it up.

So give praise to the movement of behemoths.
And cherish the ghostly muse as she cherishes you.
But allow the two independence.
Less one be crushed by the other's embrace.