you will find me beside the sun
and not on the chariot carrying the moon,
standing camouflaged by the horizon,
lingering from where the waves started,
stagnant at almost setting, forever twilight.
aspirations — or the intangible things
we have always called "starts" —
never said the road was surely continuous
and covered by a single rocket launch.
you will find me at its unsurely area,
under the desert soil a seed was planted
with almost blind hope and blank rain,
or above the weary shelf of parchments
where read are drafts of stifled oaths
and dreams under piles of dust.