As night’s departing breath fades swiftly away,
even the frightened fellahins rejoice
whilst desert-dwelling ghouls lift angered voice,
for, as the desert-haunters hate the day
and wait with patience, wait for night’s dark sway,
the fellahins give thanks, let prayers revoice
the praise of their great, glorious god, whose choice
is life against the dead, against decay.
But ghouls, they know that even gods must fly
against the coming night that swallows all.
For gods, against the onslaught, needs must die
as nomads’ tents must break against the breath
of desert storms; and even gods fear death,
for ghouls all know that gods and time need fall.