Lines written on the sands of Jaisalmer

Ice cold winds and fickle sands ;
Death, its worth, demands.
Hope, my feet, my way, the north star,
as the moon shines on this desert of Thar.
How I feel no cold ?
By a lone traveler, so I am told :
This body lodges no soul ;
Of shadow, I am but a ghoul.

Sorrow, but an oxymoron implants ;
Of warmer tears and colder hearts.
How my heart feels so cold and numb . . .
T' is but a graveyard of passions that succumb
to my fate, when it calls in its wake,
when mere existence is at stake,
to just keep walking with questions that mar
my very purpose on this desert of Thar.

Yet, I keep walking . . .
And yet, I keep trying . . .

To imprint my feet on the sands of time ;
only to be erased off by the whirls malign.
How I seek to stop and to die ;
On this very spot, my grave shall lie.
With an epitaph that shall read :
"Of the lone and the morrow, preferred Death instead. "
Ah ! but for that mirage seen during the day ,
that makes it easy to die but tempting to stay .

It's the mirage of an oasis . . .
Full of warmth and shade, the oasis . . .

A little warmth might, my nerves, sustain ;
Might this poor heart start thudding again ;
Might I discover my answers in its shade ;
Then, for this chance, Death, I will trade .
Now, its really left for my fate to decide
between life far away and death beside.
So, my fate, do answer me :
Will that mirage an oasis be ?
Oh ! will that mirage an oasis be ?

                                                    --Sauru