Sandstone, the colour of the desert.
Cold nights, on rocky hills.
Last year there was pasture,
Now all I see are empty, dry fields.
Counting the days till the rains come,
I blow my horn as I go ’round the bend
Forty-five degrees in the shade,
Throwing back water so my well won’t run dry.
Stone walls run along the railway line,
Keeping camels off the track.
Bare trees cling to steep slopes –
One more hour to Pali town.
Tall buildings are made of sand
Rising from the desert plain.
Shining like gold as the sun goes down.
Heart pounding through the night.
I drop two gears and take my foot off the gas,
The squeal of breaks does nothing to ease my pain.
This dusty town ain’t easy –
I run my fingers through my dirty hair.
Every year I’ve been coming back:
Maybe this time I’ll make this place home.