On my journey into the dry,
yet weeping desert,
I met an old shriveled woman,
only a few teeth still mired solidly, 
yellowing pegs,
anchored like pillars,
posts between her wrinkled parched lips.
"How many men have you slept with over your long lifetime?"
I asked.
"I've slept with many men"
she told me,
as we sat,
comforted by a dry riverbed.
"I've slept with many men"
she spoke softly,
her grey eyes staring,
moistened by that vast empty wilderness,
over drifting dunes,
so full of lost memories,
and forgotten songs.
"I've lain with many men"
those found words finding their sombre way,
trickling forth like a shy secret spring,
out of her being,
out into the living world,
where deserts feast on arid life.
"I've slept with many men"
she repeated herself,
her words mimicking a ritual chorus,
once sung by a lonesome campfire,
under a canopy of mesmerizing stars.
"Most of them are dead now"
she put her weathered hands up,
cradling her leathery face.
"Most of them are dead now,
but once they were alive,
or at least half alive"
she murmured.
"Dead now, most of them,
buried deep in the cool wanting earth".
I could sense tears welling up in her old wanting eyes.
"Dead now" she said,
"long buried in a sea of salty tears".
We sat there a long while,
beside ourselves,
both weeping quietly,
silently remembering,
as our tears softened the desert landscape,
as the sorry sun slowly bid the world adieu,
surrendering to another lonesome night.