The steam rises,
from the new fallen rain.
But not enough to quench,
the fires on the plain.

Not enough to quench,
my dry thirst again,
so parched by you.

I dream of the days,
when the cool winds blew.
Those days are gone,
and so should my hots for you.

Evaporated in the heat of the mist,
gone like a dinosaur's hiss,
gone like your burning kiss... Gone.

In the dawn of your midst,
you rise languid and list,
Twix the triangle of thighs,
and thoughts of our bliss.

Your torturous path,
to zenith on high.
No shade can be found,
as hours tick, dragging by.

Our sweat beads as one,
and reaches new highs,
on the salty forehead of fun,
as the last of the day dies.

In the crimson sun,

that is you on the run.

The Hot Sun In The Omani Mountains

Hot Sun In The Omani Mountains

© Andreas B. Otte


More Poems

My Place

Read War's End, the Novel

Copyright 2011 © Ronald W. Hull