When all our years turned to powder
The fragrant sands fit neatly in the narrows
The prayers of Earth in full collision
Their deaths beneath the vibrant landscape swooned
O, death, the irony of our escaping
As if there was anywhere to make our run
But we’ll be singing by the throat of God
And panicked in the wanton song
Because we fell before the festooned mass
Laying out beyond the desert's grasp
The smell of sage upon our lips
And only us to designate the stars