Those 2 thousand year old columns on the hill
sticking out of the sand
The sand an aged browny yellow
down to the sparkling champagne
of the sea
A tour operator who was born in the sand
stately date palms the feet of the desert
History knocks you out in the color and trim of the city
This lost old piece of the world
Where ignorance blinds the habitants from their own past
These fine ruins of palaces
spied on from thousands of miles away
Poor sheet wrapped desert walkers
Don't own or understand their own legacy
Heads and hearts bound by dogma
deceiving them like a soft tarp protecting them
from that sickly dawn frost at years end
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