In the caravan of dreams,
at the back of the north wind,
in the wood beyond the world,
a conference of birds was formed.

When one flew over the cuckoos nest
they all thought they might die.

They left the tavern of ruin.
For bread alone they searched
beneath the sheltering sky.

They flew along the song lines
”Let it all come down!”
was their cry

The sand child, then,
was just a wink and a waft
of the jitterbug,
perfume,
from the djinn
in the nightingales eye