Mantle on the steppe dust in ruts the tracks rattle like prayers in gusts of wind without turning around forgotten by the sun the cloud rovers on the leather of absolute walkers the sign of love of nights, faired siphon vortex angels abound in these mission countries in the vestibule the flights of hands raise the wick at the forefront of incantations as beads of sweat reflecting load-bearing walls from the city of steel of the confined with pitted walls by the desert sand squared vertebrae old order before last night.
