On the desert <br />A silence from the moon's deepest valley. <br />Fire rays fall athwart the robes <br />Of hooded men, squat and dumb. <br />Before them, a woman <br />Moves to the blowing of shrill whistles <br />And distant thunder of drums, <br />While mystic things, sinuous, dull with terrible colour, <br />Sleepily fondle her body <br />Or move at her will, swishing stealthily over the sand. <br />The snakes whisper softly; <br />The whispering, whispering snakes, <br />Dreaming and swaying and staring, <br />But always whispering, softly whispering. <br />The wind streams from the lone reaches <br />Of Arabia, solemn with night, <br />And the wild fire makes shimmer of blood <br />Over the robes of the hooded men <br />Squat and dumb. <br />Bands of moving bronze, emerald, yellow, <br />Circle the throat and the arms of her, <br />And over the sands serpents move warily <br />Slow, menacing and submissive, <br />Swinging to the whistles and drums, <br />The whispering, whispering snakes, <br />Dreaming and swaying and staring, <br />But always whispering, softly whispering. <br />The dignity of the accursed; <br />The glory of slavery, despair, death, <br />Is in the dance of the whispering snakes.<br /><br />Stephen Crane<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-desert-2/
