This strange anthill landscape criss-crossed
      by ancient tracks like varicose veins on an
      old person's legs & dry rivers blow red
      dust and the summer heat crackles under
      an off milky sky & tiny villages where only
      the aged live, fewer every year, soon there
      will be none. Bushes will grow through
      living rooms and walls will fall in winter
      rain & nothing left all traces of humanity
      gone and no one will remember that once
      upon a time you and I lived here.