A desert tends to clarify all thought.
Here a man can find real security.
Through the rythms of the universe he's brought
to know himself with some maturity.
Detatched, apart, the content of his mind
- how much he knows of human thought and art -
determines the contentment he will find.
Enduring gifts from man-kind give him heart.
Remote from urban cynics and the mobs,
who abdicate from duties to their race,
from here he sees how guilty conscience robs
the peace of those who pander to disgrace.
Such traitors to our species scream for rights
a pullulating potch of parasites.
[from the Desert of my Heart and Mind by F.J.A.Pockley 1912-1990]