Namibian Sand

There's a little sliver of Namibian Sand out there—

where no coliseum stands and probably never will.

Where word of splendour and suicide is met with dry wind

and nothing more—and this thought cradles me gently to sleep.

I've heard there's a little lick of forest in Kyrgyzstan

with a leafy grove and riverbed. Where birds have never

heard of cages or fascism—and spend their days on the

westerly wind—doing whatever they fancy instead.

I've read that in Antarctica it's so glacially cold

that war and sovereignty are mere castles in the sky.

And that upon the floating peak of Gangkhar Puensum

you can hear the soft nascence of planets and nebulae.

Take heart to know there are places—so utterly devoid,

so utterly godforsaken that the roots and trappings

of society will never spread. My little darling

take heart to know—that one day you can pack a bag and go,

chasing whatever it is your heart has craved for so long.

Go chase the silent solitude of a star-soaked sky!

Go chase the gentle tranquillity of a slumbering mountainside!

Go chase your own charming slice of desolate paradise!

Even if it drowns you, even if you starve before the

same wild, unblinking eye that freed you. Chase it, untether

yourself from pain. Love what you love. You know as well as I

that settling for anything less is dying all the same.

Nicholas James McDonough