I flee the caravanserai,

refuse the flute and its temptations.

(I say 'refuse,' but I am denied, was denied.)

And too old to ask again, too tired.

No matter.

Packed rucksack,

A long trek alone

where the strength of the withering rose

never leaves my body, so long as I keep walking.

Eternity, withered rose petals dry as powder,

Calluses hard as granite.

The wind on my face, the sand in my nostrils...

I only hear the flute again

when it is

time.