We glass sugar pieces
leap in old Syrian wind,
over countless ripples of red ochre, simmering
under yellow sunrays’ gaze.
A billion gemstone lives,
trampled by gawping camels,
unaware of the destiny of silicon;
its conquest of space.
Its conquest of biological life.
The Earth in warming rotation
heating the air, a solar hum,
warm and smoky, perfect
for the robot few,
which will out-perform civilisation.
We minions,
we dead flakes of crust,
of archaic skin.
Dust to dust.
The desert will win.