Poem: Dust figures

Hello friends, I'm here again to share this prose poem with you, I hope you like it.

They say the great deserts of the world are creatures that feed on human loneliness. That they are calluses on the skin of the continents. That, being so immense and deep, they swallow the love of men with every yawn turned into a storm. That they exist and spread through the veins of the earth like an inevitable curse. That they have grown without anyone's permission. That they evaporate the lifeblood of nature until it is left infertile, withered, and destined for the worst insults. That to this day, they are the official passage of death on the planet.

There are deserts so immense and ambitious that they race and launch themselves into the air, aiming to conquer new lands. There are men in the world so deserted within themselves, so arid and cyclopean, that the dust in their eyes prevents them from seeing life and death riding on the same cloud of sand, in the same war, in the very center of the storm.

There are men in the world so dry with pride that the calluses on their hands feed the deserts of ignorance. There are men so languid of spirit that they do not moisten their hands to avoid violence and the social death of being. And there are others, made of molten clay, who do not allow the watering of wisdom upon their heads.

There are men and deserts as pale as death itself. So made of dust that when they are prepared for planting, only the poisonous cacti of the grape harvest sprout. And there are men so meanly desert-like that they would raze you for a drop of oil, water, gas, pearls, and even suffering. In short, there are men and deserts so similar that together they make up the unextirpated tumors on earth.

_{The text is AI-free
The acknowledgments were created in Canva
The photos are my property}